


Safety Net

by Talithax



Category: Mission: Impossible - Ghost Protocol (2011)
Genre: Angst, Complete, Explicit Language, Friendship/Love, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mild S&M, Mild Sexual Content, POV First Person, Sexual Assault, Team
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-05
Updated: 2013-05-13
Packaged: 2017-12-10 11:22:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 55,891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/785498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Talithax/pseuds/Talithax
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the unthinkable happens to Will during a mission, Ethan starts down a road that leads to an unexpected outcome...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> \- No one sucks at summaries like I suck at summaries.  
> \- Narrated by Ethan. Self-beta'd.  
> \- As always, the assault happens 'off page' and is not detailed.
> 
> \- I'm posting this in chapters (there will be 5 in total) as opposed to all at once because my attention span is so bad that I'd rather be writing new fics instead of reading over and correcting old ones, and, well... By forcing myself to post in smaller batches I won't be so put off by having to beta 56,000+ words at once.  
> \- Rest assured, however, that the fic is most definitely finished and that, as I fly out to the UK for a four week holiday (yay!) on the 15th of May, I promise to have the whole fic up by then.
> 
> \- Hope you enjoy!

=========  
Safety Net  
by TalithaX  
=========

 

Pulling the house-key out of my pocket, I walk up to the front door and have barely inserted the key in to the lock when, suddenly, it's wrenched open and I find myself coming under Benji's clearly disappointed gaze.

“Oh. It's only you...” Wrinkling his nose as he steps back to let me in, Benji looks me up and down and pulls an almost comically appalled face. “You stink,” he adds, backing further away and frantically waving his hand in front of his nose. “Just... Christ, Ethan. What happened to you?”

“Bar fight.” Shrugging out of my torn and dirty jacket, I drop it on the floor and, with no small degree of relief, toe off my uncomfortable, decrepit work boots. “Loser A didn't like the way Loser B was drumming his fingers on the bar and... much hilarity involving seriously creative language, swinging fists and much beer spillage ensued,” I mutter, scowling at the memory, because, let's face it, having lived through the... unfortunate... encounter, I don't really want to be remembering it again now. “With my usual immaculate luck, I just happened to get caught in the crossfire.”

“Were you hurt?” Benji queries hesitantly as the expression on his face tells me in no uncertain terms that he's really hoping I wasn't, not, incidentally, because he actually has my best interests at heart but because he doesn't want to have get close enough to me to tender any wounds I might have. 

I shake my head. “My olfactory senses are probably never going to be the same again, but, no I wasn't hurt,” I murmur, walking towards Benji and only just controlling the urge to laugh as he scurries away from me. “Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go and have a shower.”

“While I really hate to delay... uh... that which is so desperately, make that... so very desperately needed,” Benji states, coming to a stop at the bottom of the stairs and, blocking my path, giving me one of his patented nervous looks, the one that immediately tells me I'm not going to like what he's about to say any more than he's going to like having to say it. “We... uh... We may have a problem.”

“Problem?” I come to a stop just in front of Benji and my curiosity instantly grows another, unwelcome notch when, putting his revulsion at my scent aside for a moment, he stands his ground and bites down on his bottom lip. “What sort of... problem?”

“I haven't heard from Will all day. He checked in mid morning like he should have, and then... uh... nothing. He missed the mid afternoon check in and his phone's switched off,” Benji replies as, the words having fallen out of his mouth in a rush, he seems relieved to have been able to finally share his concerns with someone. “Jane hasn't seen him around all afternoon either.”

Although I'm taken aback by Benji's news, I make a point of not showing it for fear of only adding to his unease and shrug. “Maybe the Coast Guard caught an actual case and he's just having to go along with it to keep his cover?” I offer, flashing him a practised, reassuring smile. “They said Baltimore was a busy port when we first raised the flag of having him join them this week, so I'm sure that's all it is.”

“I hacked into the Coast Guard's database and couldn't find reference to anything going down today,” he responds with a quick shake of his head. “I... I'm sure it's nothing, but... It's just not like Will, you know? He's so organised that if you give him a check in time, that, to the minute, is when he checks in.”

“I agree it sounds a bit unusual,” I concede as, my disguise as a down-and-out in desperate search for work not allowing for either a timepiece or a phone, I grab Benji's left wrist and read the time on his watch. “It's close to six now,” I add, releasing his wrist and frowning. “So... When did he last check in?”

“At ten.”

“So he's had radio silence for close to eight hours.”

“Close to, yeah...”

“I'm sure it's nothing.” Sighing, I – much to his obvious horror – place my filthy hand on Benji's shoulder and give it a squeeze. “You know as well as I do that protocol dictates that you're on your own for the first twelve hours at least,” I continue, stepping past him and beginning to make my way up the stairs. “If we haven't heard from him by ten this evening though I'll go down to the port and have a look around. Just... Don't worry too much about him, Benji. He's as trained as you and I are and he knows what he's doing. I'm sure he's fine and has just got caught up in something.”

“I just hope you're right,” Benji mutters with a sigh before shrugging and dredging up a smile that doesn't even come close to reaching his eyes. “Actually... I'm sure you will be and that I've just spent too much time on my own and am overreacting.”

Seeing no point in replying because just about anything I could come up with would only run the risk of feeding Benji's lingering doubt over Will's both unexplained and unusual silence, I walk into the bathroom and strip off the rest of my decidedly rank and definitely unfashionable clothing before stepping into the shower. Turning on the taps, I sigh as the token-gesture at best flow of lukewarm water begins to begrudgingly flow from the shower head and reach for the soap. I have no great affection for my home – although, really, 'base' would probably be more apt – back in D.C. and don't really care where I get to sleep on any given night, but this shower is so lame that it actually annoys me that I'm stuck here having to suffer through it while my own is just over a sixty minute drive away.

Baltimore being so close to D.C., we could have chosen to commute on a daily basis to run our mission but, fearing that it would upset the team dynamic if we'd just gone our separate ways in the evening instead of being stuck together as we've all grown used to, no one registered so much as a murmur of complaint when it was decided that we'd simply base ourselves here in the city. Besides, it's not as though we have any reason to believe that we'll be stuck here for any longer than this week anyway. If our intel is correct the shipment will be leaving the port on Friday and all we have to do this week is to make sure we've got everything in place before then.

We know Jonathon Nankervis, CEO and owner of Nankervis Logistics, is involved in the shipping of illegal arms to the Middle East. What we don't yet know, however, is where exactly he's sourcing the weapons from, or whether he's just the middleman who's simply providing a lucrative service for an even bigger problem. We also don't know who's buying the weapons and where they're ultimately ending up. The plan though is that by Friday we'll not only know all of this but we'll also have managed to have tagged the shipment with tracking devices. Benji's running all the data and intel from our base-slash-home for the week, Will's undercover as a Coast Guard agent with free run of the Baltimore shipping port where Nankervis Logistics is based, Jane's – exceptionally unhappily – undercover as a secretary in another logistics company at the port, and I'm just filling in all of the gaps. 

Will and Jane have the port, the obvious epicentre of everything, covered and I'm working the outside. Today was mooching around bars and coffee-shops frequented by unemployed dock workers in the hope of picking up anything of interest relating to Nankervis or the goings on in the port, while tomorrow the plan is to suit up and poke around the upper echelon of Baltimore's underground element. With any luck it will prove to be both a whole lot more interesting – I already knew, for example, that Jonathon Nankervis is a bastard of epic proportions and didn't need to have it slurred at me by just about every man I spoke to – and far less... beery... than today was. If it doesn't, and I come back feeling as though I've wasted yet another day then... It'll be back to the drawing board and I'll probably have to find a way to case out the port myself.

Grabbing the soap, I wash myself as quickly – which isn't at all – as the water pressure will allow and try not to worry about Will. I wasn't just brushing Benji off with my airy declarations that, as a highly trained IMF agent, he should be fine and most likely has whatever the situation is completely under control, but at the same time can't help but be a little concerned. Will's by the book and it's not like him to miss designated check ins. On the other hand, the port is incredibly busy, the Coast Guard spent the weekend training him in their procedures and made it clear that if his services were needed by them that they wouldn't hesitate in utilising him, and... He's no rookie. He's calm, controlled, and a natural field agent. That, and there's just really no reason he should have fallen foul of anything. While they're a constant presence at the port, and frequently poke their nose in where they're not wanted to the point of actually making frequent arrests, the Coast Guard themselves have never been targeted and are just, albeit reluctantly, an accepted part of the place.

So... He's just busy. He has to be.

Once I'm – eventually – clean, I step out of the shower, dry myself off and, tying the damp towel around my waist, leave the bathroom and walk into my bedroom. Pulling some clothes out of the suitcase on the floor, I get dressed, lace up a pair Nike's and, pretty much for no other reason than I know it would hardly be becoming of me to keep hiding from Benji and his no doubt mounting concerns, make my way down the stairs. I've just reached the bottom and am about to head in the direction of the living room where Benji has all his computers set up when the front door opens and Jane storms through it.

“How do people fucking do this day in, day out?” she complains, stepping out of her high heeled shoes and, just for good measure, giving them a vicious kick that sends them flying into the middle of the passageway. “Seriously, I'd prefer to teach a bunch of detoxing drunks to become crack snipers than spend my days typing and being leered at by asshole managers! It... It's just intolerable!” 

“And hello to you, too,” I reply drily as, dumping her bag on top of her shoes, she stalks past me and makes a beeline for the kitchen. “Good day then, I take it?”

“I'm telling you now, Ethan,” she mutters, pausing in the doorway to shoot me a – just don't go there – warning look, “I'm just not in the mood and you'd be wise to steer clear of me until I've had at least one beer.”

Shrugging, I follow her into the kitchen as, looking no calmer than he did when I left him at the base of the stairs before my shower, Benji crowds in behind me. “Please tell me you saw Will before you left,” he murmurs hopefully. “I still haven't been able to come up with anything and... I know Ethan wants to wait until ten, but...”

“Still no word from him?” Jane interrupts, frowning as she grabs a can of Bud from the fridge and flips the tab. “You've got to admit it's a bit... strange,” she continues, taking a mouthful of beer and giving me a worried look as she leans her back against the bench. “Actually... It was a bit of a strange day all round. You know those two old creepy brothers I've got the misfortune of working for? They went off to lunch today, allegedly somewhere in the port, and I never saw them again.”

“I just don't like it,” Benji sighs as, apparently hearing something of interest from his mini operations centre, he shakes his head and slowly walks back in to the living room.

“Can't say I'm loving it either,” Jane mutters, pushing away from the bench. “Look, I'm just going to get changed,” she continues, sharing a worried look with me as she steps through the doorway, “and then perhaps we'd better have something of a think about what Will could be up to, yeah?”

“It hasn't even been nine hours yet,” I reply, nonetheless nodding my agreement as she glances over her shoulder and fixes me with a cool look, “but... Okay. We'll go through our options in detail once you've gotten changed.”

“Damn right we will.”

There not really being anything that needs to be said in response to Jane's rather... adamant... statement, I walk fully into the kitchen and, even though I have no idea why because I'm not in the slightest bit hungry, open the refrigerator door. Peering at the contents – water, beer, cold pizza, milk – I idly wonder what Benji's survived on all day and am contemplating whether I can actually be bothered asking him or not when, sounding anxious, he calls both us into the living area.

“Uh... I really hope I'm wrong,” he mutters, tapping his finger against the iPad in his hands as, both of us arriving at the same time, Jane and I do our best to crowd through the door together, “but I'm thinking we may... really... have a problem now.”

“Then just spill it out already,” Jane demands as, with a classy hip and shoulder move, she gets past me and rushes over to Benji. “If you've got something you need to tell us.”

“I really hope I'm wrong,” Benji repeats, “but...” Sighing, he uses the iPad to gesture at his computer network. “I was monitoring the police radio and... uh... a nine-one-one call just came in about a possibly dead body being found on Greenmount Avenue.”

Paling, Jane glances at me and, swallowing hard, shakes her head. “Possibly dead...”

“Male, close to six foot in height, Caucasian, light brown hair, half wrapped in a blanket,” Benji continues in a faint, somewhat shaky voice. “I know it's a vague description and that it matches... hundreds of thousands of men, but...”

“But it's worth checking out anyway,” I state, snatching my phone up from the coffee-table as, Benji's unease finally having rubbed off on me, I suddenly just want to be on the move. “I'm sure you're right and it's nothing, but... Benji, send the coordinates to my phone. Jane, you're with me. Once we've confirmed that this body isn't Will we'll swing back by the port and have a poke around there in the hope of coming up with a lead as to his whereabouts.”

Looking as eager to be on the move as I now feel, Jane nods and, after sharing a worried look with Benji, heads out through the door. “I'll just go and get the car keys,” she mutters. “As you'll have the coordinates on your phone, I'll also drive.”

“Fine.” Reaching out my hand, I lightly pat Benji on the arm and murmur, “We'll keep you updated,” before rushing out of the living area and making my way towards the front door. Jane, who's bouncing up and down in her impatience to be out of here and on our way, is already there and, without speaking, we step outside and run over to the Subaru Impreza Jane's using – as part of her 'just one of the guys, slightly... skanky' cover – while in Baltimore. Getting in, I bring up the map of Greenmount Avenue on my phone as Jane starts the car, puts it into gear and, with squealing tyres, sends it flying down the street.

“Greenmount Avenue is Crips territory,” I announce with a lacklustre shrug. “The body is probably just that of some gang-banger who strayed onto the wrong street or something. It won't be Will, you'll see. We're just... rushing... to the wrong conclusion because we don't know what's going on.”

“And... Until we've got a better idea as to just what the fuck... is... going on,” Jane scowls as, with her foot to the floor, she guides the Subaru through the traffic, “I'd really prefer to concentrate on my driving and just do my worrying in silence.”

Nodding my acceptance of her actually quite reasonable request, I remain silent except for when I need to give her directions and after fifteen minutes of lairy – at best – driving we're at the start of Greenmount Avenue and my heart is beginning to beat faster with the anticipation of whatever it is we're about to find.

“Where are the cops?” Jane queries, giving me a strange – 'I'm not liking this' – look out of the corner of her eye as she slows the car down in order for us to be able to get a better view of the abandoned buildings and burnt out wrecks we're driving past. “The caller phoned in a possibly dead body, wouldn't you think the place should be crawling with cops by now?”

“This is pretty much a no-go-zone, somewhere they've already lost the war to the gangs for,” I reply, neither liking what I'm saying nor what it is I'm seeing. “Maybe they've picked up so many bodies from around here that... yet another one... is just a low priority.” Pausing, I point out my side window to a small alleyway. “There. If the caller was right, the body should be down there.”

Bringing the car to a smooth stop, Jane straightens her shoulders, runs her fingers through her hair and, with one final look at me, opens her door. “Waiting isn't going to change anything, so... Let's get this over and done with.”

Unable to argue with her plain logic, I open my door, climb out of the car and, side by side in the dull light offered by the few-and-far-between street lamps without blown globes in them, we hurry down the trash and graffiti covered alleyway. Spotting the body, half hidden behind a dumpster, first, I run up to it and crouch down. More or less covered by a dirty, oil stained blanket, the sort you use for padding when packing an item in a cargo container which you'd really prefer not to get damaged in the shipping, the man is sprawled on his stomach and, with my breath catching in my throat, I hesitantly turn him over so that I can see his face.

And...

Fuck.

It's Will. It shouldn't be, and God alone knows what's happened to him, but it is.

Fuck, fuck, fuck!

And he's in a bad way. Unconscious. Naked. Beaten. Only... Not just beaten. Something worse than a... beating... has happened to him. Even in the dim light and through all the smeared blood, already forming bruises and abrasions, the signs are obvious. I don't want to see them, and I won't accept them until I hear medical confirmation, but...

They're there.

I just know it.

“Shit!” Jane exclaims, dropping to her knees next to me and, as though she's afraid to touch him, hovering her hand over Will's bloody shoulder. “Just what the fuck happened...” Stopping herself, she takes a deep breath and pulls her phone out of her pocket. “I'll call an ambulance.”

“No.” Shaking my head, I reach out a dithery feeling hand and place my fingers against the pulse at the base of Will's throat. To my great relief it's quite strong and this helps make my mind up. “We're taking him back to the infirmary,” I state, tugging the blanket as best as I can manage over Will and very gingerly starting to pick him up.

“The infirmary? You mean...”

“The IMF infirmary back in D.C.,” I confirm, cutting Jane off as, getting to my feet, I awkwardly hug Will's dead weight against my chest. “Not knowing what's going on here, I don't want him in Baltimore and, more importantly, I want him to be somewhere where I'll know he's safe. His pulse is strong and... I don't want to say this, but... I honestly don't think an hour in the back of the car is going to make things any worse for him.”

Pulling the blanket over Will's shoulder, Jane nods and, no doubt because she doesn't want me to see the hint of tears glinting in her eyes, stars to stride back towards the Subaru. “Seeing as you've got your hands full, I suppose I'd better be the one to phone Benji and give him the... news.”

“Don't bother,” I call out, scanning the area where Will's body had been dumped for any possible clues and, not finding any, beginning to slowly walk after Jane. Although I'm trying to be gentle, I know that I'm... not, not really, but Will's so deeply unconscious that he doesn't even move and I hope I'm doing the right thing by him by insisting on delaying his treatment in order to get him back to D.C.. “We'll swing by the house,” I continue as Jane opens the Subaru's back door for me, “and pick up both Benji and a few supplies to hopefully make Will a little more comfortable should he wake up... Then... We're out of here.”

~*~*~*~*~*~

“I'm sure you don't really want to hear this,” Luther announces as, appearing out of nowhere, and not that I'm going to let this on, mind you, half-startling me with the sound of his voice, he leans against the doorframe and fixes me with a coolly appraising look, “but, hey, as I'm a caring, sharing kind of guy I'm going to say it anyway.”

Giving my – clinically flat and emotionless, as they have to be – report one final glance, I shrug and, after ensuring that it's saved, close the laptop screen and reluctantly give Luther my full attention. The report detailing what little I know about today's events is complete, I'm essentially in a holding pattern while I wait for Dr Cavendish to finish with Will and don't particularly want to join Jane and Benji as they sit, worried, impatient and racking their brains as to how it could have all gone so horribly wrong, in the infirmary's small waiting room, yet nor can I confess to feeling all that up for Luther's company either. He's one of my oldest and closest friends, and until my current team came along and gelled so incredibly well, my staunchest, most reliable ally in IMF. I like, and have even been known to rely on him, but Luther's a strong personality who has no qualms in calling a spade a spade and, seriously, right now I just honestly don't feel in the mood for his company.

I'm worried about Will, pissed off that's there's a genuine risk of the mission imploding, unimpressed at the blandness of my report, tired, more than a little on edge, feeling as though I'm failing the others somehow by keeping my distance and not lurking in the waiting room for fear of letting them see how much this is all getting to me, and...

Hell. Let's face it. I'm neither in the mood for, nor fit for company. Period.

“Cat got your tongue, huh?” Luther mutters, frowning as he folds his arms over his broad chest. “Have to say this is merely reinforcing my stance on the matter.”

“What matter?” Sighing, I – accept that, as he'd only follow me if I attempted to get up and leave, I'm effectively stuck with him – push my chair back from the desk and counter Luther's frown with a scowl.

“The one where I can't help but do my... I told you so... thing,” Luther replies with a shrug. “I'm sure you don't want to hear it, but, tough. As I've already mentioned I'm just going to say it anyway.”

Although I've both known Luther for years and generally pride myself on my ability to read people, I have no idea what he's getting at and, narrowing my eyes, mirror his slightly defensive pose by folding my arms across my chest. “Say... what?” I demand flatly. “Whatever you want to say, Luther, just get on with it and say it already. In case you've missed it, I'm not having the greatest of days and am far from being in the mood to play verbal games with you.”

“Who said anything about wanting to play verbal games?” Luther retorts. Shrugging again, he shifts away from the doorframe and walks further into the office before coming to a stop by the edge of the desk. “I just came by to say that, just as, if you care to remember, I said at the time it was, it appears your experiment in releasing the desk-monkey back into the field was a bad one.”

“Desk-monkey?” I repeat, the disbelief and – incredible – annoyance I'm feeling at Luther's blasé and downright offensive reference to Will coming through loud and clear in my voice. Shaking my head, I glare at him and, through clenched teeth, add, “I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that.”

“You can pretend all you want, but you heard it 'cos I said it.” Perching none-too-comfortably on the edge of the desk, Luther schools his face into an impassive mask and pointedly looks me in the eye. “Desk-monkeys belong behind a desk and hooked into a computer. They don't, especially if they've already had one failed attempt, belong out in the field. Again, I told you this, that your idea was harebrained, when you first mentioned it to me.”

He did too. Although it was just over six months ago, I remember it clearly. His lecture, when I told him I'd decided to do whatever it took to convince Will to join my team, was both carefully worded and obviously heartfelt, but it was no more any of his fucking business then than it is now. Besides, he's wrong. It wasn't – ignoring the small, positively insignificant fact that if I'd left Will alone he wouldn't... be where he is now – a bad idea, and if he's seriously implying that what happened is Will's fault, then...

The only thing I'll confess to being wrong about is thinking I knew Luther at all.

“His name,” I grind out as, standing up, I make a deliberate point of shifting further away from Luther, “is William Brandt or, to you... Agent... Brandt, and if I hear the words desk-monkey slip out of your mouth again in relation to him you're not going to like my reaction. Just... Now, Luther? Seriously? You choose now of all times to spout your 'I told you so' bullshit at me?”

“The mission's a fuck up and... Agent... Brandt has gotten himself a stint in the infirmary,” Luther replies, swivelling around to keep watch on me as, feeling unable to keep still, I pace the length of the office. “You could perhaps think of a better time to... spout... it at you?”

Just... Where to start?

“A) It's got nothing to do with you,” I snap, gesturing dismissively at Luther as I stalk past him. “B) It wasn't, not that it's any of your fucking business, a mistake. C) Will is an asset to any team and if you don't believe that then I don't really care. D) He most definitely did... not... get himself, as you felt compelled to put it, a stint in the infirmary. We still don't know how his cover was made and for you to, fuck, for you to even have an opinion on the matter when the mission has nothing to fucking do with you just sticks in my Goddamn craw!”

“Your craw, huh?”

“My Goddamn craw, at that!”

“You know, Ethan, you sure do get defensive where... Agent... Brandt's concerned,” Luther offers mildly, causing me to come to an abrupt, immediately huffy, stop in front of him. “What? It's true. Don't get me wrong, I'm sorry that he's hurt and, hey, for all I know he's a great guy, but... Having failed in the field once, all I'm saying, all I've always said, is that he should have been left as an analyst. He's just not cut out for field work and, regardless of how you might feel, you're not responsible for him.”

“I never said I was,” I state coldly as, once again folding my arms across my chest, I glower at Luther. “Of course I'm not responsible for Will and nor am I getting defensive!”

“No?”

“No I'm not!”

“Could have fooled me.”

“Fuck you, Luther. I'm not in the mood for this and I don't think you're being fair on Will, who, it has to be said, you don't even know.”

“I know he's got some sort of hold over you,” Luther murmurs, dare I say it, almost conversationally as he gives an unbothered shrug. “I mean, an analyst falls in your lap in Moscow and, just like that, you've got to have him on your team? Forgive me for thinking that, well, even for you that's just a little bit strange.”

“And forgive me for thinking it's any of your fucking business,” I mutter sullenly as, with a sigh, I sink back down into the chair. “Look, without Will we wouldn't have succeeded in taking down Cobalt in Mumbai. He impressed me with his skills, he fitted in effortlessly with the team and, as good an analyst as he clearly was, I decided he was wasted being stuck behind a desk. That, however, is it, and, again, I don't think you're being at all fair.”

Well, that's all I have it in me to tell Luther – who, let's face it, isn't exactly doing all that much for my already considerably frayed inner calm at the moment – at any rate. What he doesn't need to know about, what I'm definitely not going to share with him though is Croatia and how – now that I know the other side of the story – I feel inadvertently responsible for the crushing sense of self-doubt that saw Will turning his back on field work in the first place. 

Nor, for that matter, does he need to know how strangely... touched... I felt upon waking up in that hospital room in Mumbai to find Will patiently sitting there and watching over me. We hardly knew each other, he still felt as though he was keeping a horrible secret from me, one that he was convinced I'd hate him for, yet... There he was. Instead of remaining with Benji, who was anxiously hovering around Jane as she slept off the surgery to repair her gunshot wound, he not only chose to make sure I didn't wake alone but he'd also completed all the mission reports so that I could convalesce in both peace and without feeling as though I had hours of paperwork hanging over my head. It was a small thing, probably insignificant and hardly worth a second thought to most people, but to me it really was an incredibly pleasant surprise. So used to waking alone, or, if I was really lucky, with either a law enforcement officer of some description or other wanting to cuff me to the bed or the Secretary anxiously waiting for a verbal mission update, in hospital rooms the world over, to open my eyes to a familiar face who wanted nothing more than to know I was okay, it...

It was just – nice – unexpected, and I pretty much made up my mind then and there that I wanted to keep working with Will. Although I didn't know about Croatia at that point, what I did know was that we worked well together and that, possibly even instinctively, I liked having him around. He was just one of those exceptionally rare people that, perhaps not even for any logical reason, I simply... clicked... with for some reason.

Recent events, admittedly, aside, I don't regret having convinced Will to return to the field. The three missions we've successfully completed since Cobalt all went refreshingly smoothly and I have no hesitation in contributing a lot of that easy success to Will. He's calm, quite faultless in what he does, easy to get on with, and his background knowledge on just about every target to have ever slithered across IMF's radar is honestly second to none. I also, and, yes, this when I care to think about it does surprise me, given my usual cautiousness and suspicion when it comes to allowing new people into my inner circle, already think of him as a close friend. Not as close as Luther, who I've known for far longer and who also possesses the rare distinction of simply being 'part of the furniture' of my life, but...

William Brandt. There's just... something... about him. Something that I either can't quite put my finger on or, alternatively, won't... allow... myself to put my finger on. All I know for certain, and I'll explain this to Luther in words of one syllable and until I'm blue in the face if I have to, is that I want him around. That I'm... happier, somehow, when he's around.

“Maybe I'm not being overly fair,” Luther comments, giving me a funny – 'there's something you're not telling me' – look, “but from where I'm standing this is what I'm seeing... Agent has a melt down, only internally, mind you, not for any physical reasons, and instead of sucking it up and continuing on, throws in the towel and retreats behind the solid, protective walls of HQ and becomes part of the Brain Trust. Agent then, through some twisted quirk of fate and the...” Pausing, he raises his eyebrow and, for all of a split second, actually has the nerve to smirk at me. “... Brain fade of someone who should really know better... returns to field work after eighteen months of sitting on his ass behind a desk and, well I never, within six months has somehow managed to blow a mission and land said ass in the infirmary. So, you know, forgive me for thinking he's more trouble than he's worth.”

Okay. That's it. I don't have to sit here listening to this.

“In that case, forgive me for thinking you were a friend,” I state acidly as, getting to my feet, I stalk over to the door and, in the hope of him both getting the hint and getting the fuck out of my sight before I really blow a fuse, looking pointedly out it. “Regardless of how neatly you think you've got your version of the facts laid out in your head, you don't know the full story, you don't know Will and, again, you're not being fair. Even if he did allow his cover to slip, which I'm sure in time we'll find wasn't the case at all, what happened wasn't his fault and he definitely didn't... deserve... it. So, please, just go and take your wrong, judgemental ideas with you.”

“Mmm... You're not defensive about your pet desk-monkey at all,” Luther mutters, pushing away from the desk and, apparently oblivious to the steam coming out of my ears and the death-glare I'm giving him, slowly ambling over towards the door. Coming to a stop next to me, he lightly places his hand on my shoulder and adds, “I just hope he's worth all this... blind loyalty... you're showing him.”

Angrily shaking off Luther's hand, I back further away and continue to glare at him as though – I don't even know him – he's a complete stranger to me. “It's not... blind loyalty. I'm not defensive, and,” I retort, scowling, “if you knew what he'd been through you'd be keeping your fucking opinions to yourself!”

“Having my ass handed to me on a plate?” Luther offers with a snort. “Been there, done that.”

“Oh. His ass was on a plate, all right, just not in the way you're thinking!”

Just...

Shit.

Why the hell did that have to slip out? I'm not stupid. I could see the signs. His nakedness and the location of his injuries, the look of panic in his eyes when he momentarily came to in the back of the car and found an arm around his shoulders, the way he wouldn't meet my gaze, but... 

Acknowledging the signs and... acknowledging... that it ever took place are two different things entirely.

“He was...” No more able to say it than I'm able to... face up to it, Luther sighs heavily and, his expression softening, slumps back against the doorframe. “Shit, man. Why didn't you say?”

“Because...” I didn't want to admit it to myself, let alone give voice to it.

Sighing again, Luther straightens up and returns his hand to my shoulder. “Look, Ethan, I'm sorry, yeah... And, you're right, I wasn't being fair and should have kept my stupid mouth shut.”

“Damn right,” I mutter, all my anger at Luther up and leaving me at both his obvious contrition and the fact that... now that I've said it I can't get what Will endured out of my head and just want to be left alone.

“I...” Flashing me a weak smile, Luther gives my shoulder a squeeze before, looking as though he can't get away from me quick enough, finally stepping through the door. “With you so firmly on his side, I'm sure he'll be fine.”

“Yeah, well, let's hope so.” Rubbing my hands tiredly over my face, I follow Luther through the door and watch his back as he walks along the corridor towards the elevator. Once he's in it and disappeared from sight, I make to turn around and return to the office just as, coming from the opposite direction, Benji materialises and hurries towards me.

“Dr Cavendish has finished with Will,” he calls out, coming to a stop a short distance away and gesturing for me to join him. “Come on. He's waiting for us in his office.”

Biting back a resigned – so much for a moment's peace and quiet in which to attempt to pull my thoughts together in – sigh, I resist the urge to glance back longingly at the empty office and, because I know I don't really have any choice in the matter, begin to walk towards Benji. “Has he said anything yet?” I query, getting in step with him and, because it's clearly the day for it, doing my best to ignore how subdued he's looking.

“Nope. Not a word. I get the impression he's waiting until you're there to hit us with it,” Benji murmurs as, shoving his hands in his pockets, his shoulders slump even further as the door to the infirmary looms into sight. “Jane...” Slowing his pace, he flicks a tentative glance at me and bites down on the corner of his bottom lip. “Jane... She thinks he was probably...” Trailing off again, he swallows hard and scuffs his feet along the carpet. “Ethan? Surely not. I mean, I... I don't...”

“We'll find out for certain from Dr Cavendish in a minute,” I state, taking pity on Benji's inability to give voice to the fear we're all feeling and cutting him off with a grim smile. “Just... Let's wait to hear from the doctor, yeah...”

Nodding his acceptance, Benji removes his left hand from his pocket and gives my arm a quick squeeze before opening the infirmary's door and following me into its silent, elegant looking reception area. Interior designed to the point of resembling, with its soft lighting, plush carpet and colour co-ordinated furnishings in varying tones of beige and brown, a five-star motel, the infirmary is as close to an oasis of calm as it's ever likely to get inside IMF's sprawling headquarters. Designed more to deal with injuries gained during training while on the premises than a fully functioning hospital, it nonetheless has not only its own operating theatre, but also a full compliment of professionals who can treat just about everything and five private rooms kitted out with state-of-the-art equipment that any of the world's best hospitals would be envious of. I'm not, having spent more time here than I care to remember, a huge fan of the place, but, at the same time, can't think of anywhere I'd rather be if I needed treatment. It's quiet, private, the staff – with one notable exception – are only ever sourced from the best-of-the-best and, most importantly, I trust the level of care given here. It's also, if you ignore the constantly prowling psychiatrists and counsellors who seem to poke their head through your door at every single opportunity and try their hardest to get you to... 'talk'... about what you're feeling, both safe and reassuringly relaxing.

While it may not exactly be my place to offer an opinion on the subject, if Will has to be in a hospital setting then I'm happier knowing that he's comfortably ensconced within the motel-like confines of the infirmary than stuck out in some community hospital somewhere. At least here I can trust the level of care he's receiving and, the way I currently see it, one less thing to worry about at the moment can only be viewed as a positive.

“Ethan!” Looking relieved to see me, more, I suspect at the fact I've reappeared and she's only seconds away from hearing how Will is than for any other reason, Jane jumps up from the overstuffed milk-coffee coloured suede sofa she'd been sitting on and rushes over to meet us. Unlike Benji, who I think is concentrating extremely hard on quashing his emotions, the worry Jane's feeling is written all over her tired, mascara-stained face and, draping my arm around her shoulders, I give her a quick hug and try my best to dredge up a wan smile. “It'll be okay,” I state with a degree of conviction that, seeing as I'm hardly feeling it will be myself, actually surprises me. “You'll see. He's alive and back with us which, regardless of whatever we might be about to hear from Dr Cavendish, is a great place to start. Just... I don't know, try to keep in mind that things could be worse.”

“Word of advice,” Jane replies, linking her elbow around mine and pulling me towards the doctor's office, “while, yes, you're good, a natural even, at a great many things, I'm here to tell you now that you'd be wise to never consider inspirational speaking as a possible career change, because, seriously, that pretty much sucked.”

“I don't know, I kind of liked it myself,” Benji murmurs, scurrying in front of me in order to be next to Jane just as we're about to walk into the office. “I mean, he's right. Will's here and things, they could be far worse.”

“You just keep telling yourself that,” Jane whispers, bumping her hip gently against Benji as she pulls her arm free of mine and takes a seat in one of the two chairs in front of the doctor's imposing antique desk. Frowning at the second chair, she swivels around and looks up first at me and then at Benji. “Three not going all that well into two, one of you might want to get another chair from the waiting area.”

“Benji, you take it,” I reply, nodding at Dr Cavendish as he stands by the door, patiently waiting for us to be ready, before gesturing Benji towards the empty chair. “I'm fine standing.”

Accepting that we're finally as settled as we're ever likely to get, Dr Cavendish closes the door and, walking behind his desk, takes a seat in his high backed leather chair. A slim, distinguished looking man in his early fifties whose father used to be an IMF agent and who has devoted his career to ensuring the agency's agents receive the best medical care possible, Aaron Cavendish was already part of the furniture here when I first arrived for training and I trust him as much as I'm capable of trusting anyone. He doesn't sugar coat things and always, albeit kindly, tells it to you straight.

Leaning back in his chair and locking his gaze on mine as I press my back against the wall and, not knowing what else to do with them, stuff my hands in my pockets, Dr Cavendish rests his elbows on the desk, steeples his fingers and gets immediately down to business. “I'm sorry to have to inform you that, as I suspect you may well have already gathered, your agent has suffered a fairly serious sexual assault,” he declares plainly. “Not only has he been repeatedly raped, but the rest of his, predominantly superficial, I hasten to add, injuries point to the assault having had a considerable sadistic element to it.”

Which means, and he doesn't have to say it because courtesy of all the tedious training sessions we've sat through over the years we all know it without hearing it, that the assault was as much, if not more, about the sexual – perversions – gratification of the assailant or assailants as it was about the power play and debasement. All rape is bad, easily worse than a mere beating or even most forms of torture, but for it to have a drawn out, S&M element to it, I...

I just don't even want to think about it. I... can't... think about it. If I do, my treacherous imagination will take me there, and I'll picture Will, and...

I can't. I just can't.

Taking a deep breath, I tilt my head back and, as Benji pulls his chair closer to Jane's so that he can put his arm around her shoulders, momentarily close my eyes as Dr Cavendish continues to calmly explain Will's condition. Although I'm not proud of it, I don't pay attention to every word out of the doctor's mouth and only take in enough to feel both nauseas and as though I could quite cheerfully strangle Nankervis with my bare hands. The bastard was never going to get a Christmas card from me, but he's now shot to the coveted number one position on my forever changing Shit List and ridding the world of his presence – be it by locking him up or, and this is my preferred option, it really is, lodging a bullet in his forehead and splattering his brains all over the wall – is now my main goal in life.

Tearing... Burn marks, most likely caused by a cigarette being stubbed out on his flesh... Bruised ribs... Welts... Abrasions, caused by both rope and cuffs... Has already been started on a course of Post Exposure Prophylaxis which, because this is just what he really needs, has a seemingly never ending list of possible side effects attached to it... Only a short stay in the infirmary, followed by rest... Injuries not life threatening, but will be sore for a while and... then there's the psychological side of things...

When Dr Cavendish finally reaches the end of his... litany... of misery, he asks quietly if we've got any questions and, as I open my eyes and shift away from the wall, I issue forth with the only thing I can trust myself to say.

“Can we see him?”

It's simple. It's all – especially as I feel that I know all that I need to know and that nothing would be achieved by having any of it explained in more excruciating detail – that I want an answer to and, going on the way both Jane and Benji are eagerly getting to their feel, all they really want an answer to as well.

“Of course.” Nodding, Dr Cavendish stands up and makes his way over to the door. “Keep in mind, however, that he's been sedated and isn't due to wake for at least three hours. Of course, if you're needing to question him I could give him something to bring him around earlier, just...”

“We don't need to question him,” I interrupt as the gasp that slips out of Jane's mouth makes it clear that she's horrified by the very thought of there being any need to forcefully wake Will after all that he's already been through. “That is... We do, but it can wait until he's feeling a little more up to it. Right now his health is the most important thing and we'll respect your direction in regards to the time we're allowed to spend with him.”

“Very well. If you'll just follow me, I'll...” His cell phone vibrating to life inside the pocket of his de rigueur white coat causing him to trail off, he smiles apologetically and, retrieving it, glances down at the screen before turning around and starting to walk back towards his desk. “I'm sorry, but I'm really going to have to get this,” he states. “Agent Hunt, as I know for a fact you've been in here enough times to know your way around the place, your agent is in the number one suite at the end of the corridor and I am confident you will be able to locate him with ease.”

Nodding, I mutter, “Trust me, I know where to find it,” and, gesturing Jane and Benji through the door first, walk out of the doctor's office. Pulling the door softly shut behind me, I begin to walk along the corridor towards the suite Dr Cavendish has placed Will in and, all the time concentrating solely on simply putting one foot after the other for the cowardly reason of not wanting to think about anything else, am three-quarters of the way there when Benji just has to go and say it.

“I... Ethan, wait! I... I don't think I can see him.”

Coming to a stop that's as instantaneous as it is abrupt, I spin around and glare at him as, still doing her very best to keep it together, Jane frowns and gently places her hand on his arm. “It's okay, Benji,” she murmurs, her gaze darting from Benji to me and back again as, the pressure in my head nearing the point of critical mass, I stalk back towards them on legs that hardly even feel connected to my body. “You've seen friends in the infirmary before. He'll be all clean and just looking like he's asleep.”

“I... I know that, but...” Shaking off Jane's hand, Benji takes a step backwards and, looking for all the world as though he's in danger of succumbing to a panic attack, stares past me, his gaze locked onto the door at the end of the corridor which will take him – to freedom – out of the infirmary. “I know it's only Will, but... but I'm afraid that when I see him I'll immediately have these mental images of what he's been through flash into my head, and I... I can't! He's my friend and I don't want to imagine him like...”

“Then... don't,” I declare as, knowing that I have to nip Benji's concerns in the bud right here and now before he inadvertently exposes his concerns to Will, I shoot a warning – 'just keep out of it' – look at Jane before grabbing Benji by the shoulders and slamming him back up against the wall. “Just... Pull yourself together, Benji!” I continue, the agitation I'm feeling coming through loud and clear in my voice as, going limp, he gazes at me through wide, startled eyes. “You said it yourself, Will's your friend and you're coming to see him even if I have carry you into his room. So... Remember him as you last saw him and, for God's sake, suck it up!” Releasing my hold on him, I spin on my heels and start to continue along the corridor. “He wouldn't hesitate over wanting to see you if it was you lying in a hospital bed,” I add over my shoulder, “so, just get a damn move on already.”

My piece having been said, I make a mental note to contemplate apologising to Benji in the near future – depending, of course, on whether he takes my brusque pep talk to heart and does what I fully expect him to – and, without bothering to see if the others are following me, step silently into Will's room. Number one suite being the largest of the infirmary's five rooms that are set up to deal with an extended stay if required, it's airy, tastefully decorated and, if not for the stock-standard hospital bed set up in the middle of it, really would just look like an expensive motel room. The television is far bigger than it needs to be, the armchairs and sofa are leather, and I already know without having to open the door that the en suite is both larger and better appointed than the one I have in my own house.

It is still, however, essentially a glorified hospital room and the sumptuousness of the suite is, as always, secondary to the sight on the bed of whoever it is you're there to see. Pale, and with his face littered with still forming bruises, Will lies both sound asleep and perfectly still on the bed. The bedding smoothed tightly over him, he's clad in a pair of the infirmary's standard navy blue cotton pyjamas and I'm – pathetically – relieved to note that the only flesh on display is his face, neck and, as his arms are resting on top of the bedclothes, hands. It's enough, as I can still see an angry looking red abrasion that rings the base of his neck and the neat white bandages that circle his wrists peaking out from under the sleeves of his pyjama top, but...

What I can't see I can... gloss over. Right? If I can't see it, I don't have to pay it a second's thought and can just – bury my head in the sand – pretend that it's not even there. 

I know it happened, that... there's not a single fucking thing I can do about it, but... I just don't want to think about it. If I do I run the risk of falling foul of Benji's fears, the ones I just chewed him out over and... that wouldn't do. It wouldn't do at all. I don't want... I can't... think of Will like that.

He...

He was only in the field because it's what I wanted. If I'd left him alone this never would have happened to him, and...

“I think you need to listen to your own advice and think only of how he was when he left this morning,” Jane whispers as, materialising in the doorway, she closes her hand around mine and pulls me along with her as she walks further into the room. “Look... Things are bad, hell, they're fucking awful, but he'll... We'll all get through this.” Sinking down in the armchair closest to the bed, she lets go of my hand only to immediately pick up Will's and give it a gentle squeeze. “I refuse to have it any other way, so... Whatever needs to be done, we'll just do it. We are, after all, a team, and we need to stick together.”

“Jane's right,” Benji comments in a faint, barely above that of a whisper, voice as, giving me a sheepish look, he slips into the room. “Uh... Actually, make that you're both right,” he adds, lightly running his fingers along the length of my arm as he walks past me in order to take a seat in the armchair on the opposite side of the bed to the one Jane's in. “Will's both our team mate and friend, and it's up to us to help him get through this. I... Uh... Ethan, I'm sorry, I...”

“Forget it,” I interrupt, stretching my lips into what I hope passes for a believable enough smile as, just as Jane's still doing, Benji picks up Will's other hand and squeezes it. “As you both just said, we're a team and we'll all get through this. Now... On that note...” It's probably not the time for it, hell, I don't even feel all that convinced that it's what, if that is I actually had a choice in the matter, I actually want to do myself, but... Rule Number Whatever. You can't allow emotion to get in the way of the mission.

You do what you have to do because it's... what you do, what you always do. It's the IMF way. Shut down, soldier on, fight the good fight and win the war. Once that's done you can lock yourself away in a padded cell if need be, but until then the only way is forever forward. Members of your team may fall by the wayside, but the endgame remains the same and you've got to keep striving towards it.

“We've got to get back to Baltimore, don't we?” Jane murmurs with a weary, clearly unimpressed sigh as she drags her gaze away from Will to glance up at me. “One down, three to go, but the all-important mission has to go on.”

“You know it does as well as I do,” I reply, running my fingers through my hair and, because it seems to be my default position at the moment, going to lean my back against the wall in front of the foot of the bed. “I'm not saying it's what I want, but... It's what we have to do. It would take too long to bring another team up to speed and, well, I don't know about you but my desire to get Nankervis is a hell of a lot stronger and more focussed than it was this morning.”

“Oh. He's going down,” Jane mutters, shifting her gaze to Benji and flashing him a glum smile. “You're... Damn it! You're right of course. We have to get back to Baltimore. Even if we've been compromised we still need to be the ones to finish the bastard off. But...” Lifting her head, she sighs again and gives me a hopeful look. “Can't we just wait until Will's woken up? I think it would be good for him to both see us and know what's going on instead of just being left here alone. I know time is of the essence and all that bullshit, but I just think he... deserves...”

“We can afford to wait the three hours Dr Cavendish said it would take him to wake,” I murmur, cutting Jane off and earning myself the first genuine smile I've seen in hours in response. The real truth of the matter is that we never should have left Baltimore in the first place and that just about anything – Nankervis shutting up the operation and getting the hell out of Dodge – could have happened in our absence. As team leader, I should care about this. Actually, it should be my number one priority, but... We're here now, my actions are, granted, heavily guided by my memory of waking up in Mumbai to Will watching over me, and, seriously, there's just no way I'm going to leave him to wake up on his own.

If my call is proven to be the wrong one and we – momentarily – lose Nankervis, then so be it. He'll still get his, even if does turn out to take a little longer. From someone who was only a target to be brought to justice, he's now a marked man who I'll stop at nothing, to use Jane's term, to bring down.

“We'll have to be on the road soon after though,” I add, yet again solely because I know I have to. “Once he's woken up and we've all had a quick chat, we'll have to be on our way. I know it feels... harsh... but...”

“It's what we have to do,” Benji finishes with a shrug. “But, hey, it's still better than nothing.” Glancing around the room, he wrinkles his nose at the picture-perfect blandness of it all and, using his free hand, reaches across the bed to prod Jane's wrist. “Given that there's still a while before he wakes up, how about we go and see what we can rustle up by way of a sort of gift basket or something?”

Nodding, Jane gives Will's hand one last squeeze before gently placing it back down on the bed and standing up. “Good idea,” she replies, stretching. “I could do with some fresh air and something to eat myself. So, come on, we'll mount a raid on the vending machines.”

“Want anything, Ethan?” Benji offers as, after pretty much following Jane's lead – hand squeeze, gentle placement on bed, stretch – to the letter, he strolls past me on his way to the door. 

I shake my head. “No, thanks. I'm good.”

“Mmm... And yet I'm still going to bring you back something to eat and drink,” Jane retorts, shooting me a no-nonsense look as she follows Benji out into the corridor. “We shouldn't be too long but, call us, yeah, if he looks like he's going to wake earlier?”

“Will do.” Shifting away from the wall, I close the door and... Quite literally don't know what to do with myself. Do I... 

Do a Benji by following Jane's lead and taking Will's hand in mine?

Revert to form and retrieve the laptop from the empty office I was in earlier in order to either put the finishing touches to my report or check in with what's been happening in Baltimore?

Lock myself away in the en suite and – break down in private – hide?

The first option being at once the most appealing to me and the one I feel least... worthy... of being able to do, I quickly search for another way to spend my time and settle on reaching into my pocket for my cell phone. Stepping into the en suite, I leave the door ajar behind me and, taking a seat on the closed toilet lid, hit the speed dial function for Luther's number. 

He picks up on the third ring and answers with a grunt. “You still speaking to me, then.”

“Yeah, but... Only because I want something from you.”

“Should have known.”

“Are you sticking around...”

“How is he?” Luther interrupts. “You can grovel to me in a minute, but first tell me how...”

“My... pet desk-monkey is?” I hate the term and, yes, I do actually want something from Luther, but if he honestly thinks we're simply back to how things were before he saw fit to lecture me on Will then, sorry, he's wrong. We'll get there, I have faith in that, but right now I'm still bearing something of a grudge and don't want to let him off the hook too easily. “Come on, Luther, isn't that how you were referring to him forty or so minutes ago?”

“Agent... Brandt,” Luther drawls in response to my small display of attitude. “Assuming that's what I'm allowed to call him, how's... Agent Brandt doing?”

“Will,” I clarify with a sigh as I know my point has been clearly made. “He'll live. Probably not all that happily for a while, but he'll live.”

“Good. I'm glad to hear it. What about the mission though, where's that at?”

“That's actually why I'm calling you. I need to know if you're likely to be sticking around D.C. for the next few days.”

“That's the plan. I've got some bullshit skills retraining seminar to sit through and then I think the pencil pushing dicks have got me jumping through hoops on the firing range.”

“Good.”

“Good?”

“Well, not good that you've drawn the dreaded... time to be re-evaluated... straw, of course, but good that you're going to be around.”

“And that would be... because?”

“Because I'm really hoping you'll have some breaks in your heavy schedule of jumping through hoops for pencil pushing dicks in order to occasionally look in on Will for me.”

“Look in on him? What for? It's not like I've been getting the impression he's likely to be going anywhere soon.”

“Because I asked you to, that's why,” I mutter. “We've got to get back to Baltimore, he'll be on his own and, read into this whatever the hell you want, I would just feel better knowing you were checking in on him. You know, bring him some magazines or ask if there's anything he wants, that sort of thing. I'm not asking you to... baby-sit him or even go particularly out of your way, so... Will you do it?”

“Yeah, well... I suppose I can poke my head through his door every now and again,” Luther replies, just as, once he got his display of reluctance out of the way, that is, I always knew he would. “You want me to... report in... to you as well?”

“Only if you feel there's anything worth reporting.”

“Fair enough. I can do that.”

“Thanks. Seriously, Luther, I mean it.”

“You and... Agent Brandt, you sure there's not something going on between you? Man, I've known you for years, Ethan, and you've never...”

And... Look at that. Luther's once again wanting to tell me things that I don't want to hear, so... Having achieved what I set out to achieve, I guess it's time to end the call.

“Thanks again, Luther,” I state, talking all over the top of him in my sudden haste to get off the phone. “Look, I've got to go, but... I owe you one, yeah...”

Terminating the call, I return the phone to my pocket and, because the voice in the back of my head tells me in no uncertain terms that I'll only regret it later on if I don't, walk back into the room and sink down in the same chair by the bed that Jane had been in earlier. I still – blame myself – don't think I have any right to be doing this, that Will's life would have been so much better if he'd never laid eyes on me, but...

He's asleep. There's no reason for him to ever know that I... feel this way.

Placing my hand palm-side up on the bed, I slide it under Will's and close my fingers around his. He sleeps on, oblivious to both my presence and touch, and... apart from vowing to see the mission through and making Nankervis pay, I...

I just don't know what to do, what to say, or even what to feel.

~*~*~*~*~*~


	2. Chapter 2

~*~*~*~*~*~

Saved from having to keep up my feigned interest in the newspaper open on my lap by the sound of the front door opening, I look up just as Jane storms into the living area. Noticing her expression, I've barely had time to process that – clearly still not loving her temping position – she's looking considerably displeased with the world in general when, without warning, a black patent leather stiletto goes flying past my face and slams against the wall just behind where Benji's sitting, connected, as always, to his laptop. He, not exactly surprisingly, jerks around in shock just as, with even more force this time, Jane's other shoe joins its mate on the floor by his chair.

“Next time I feel the urge to complain about the crap we put ourselves through,” Jane announces as, not having finished yet, she flings her – prim and proper – headband onto the coffee-table, “please remind me that things could always be worse and I could be stuck in an office full of moronic perverts stuck in the Goddamn Fifties!”

“Another good day in the office then, dear?” I query facetiously as, still looking a little startled, Benji swivels fully around in his chair in order to get a better view of the show.

Shooting me an evil look, Jane strides through the living area and disappears into her room. “This damn mission had better come to an end soon,” she calls out, “or, I'm telling you now, I'm going to go postal. You'd think, in this day and age, that they'd know better, but, no. To those morons, sexual harassment in the workplace is probably the title of their favourite porno!”

“I'm quite sure I don't want to know,” Benji comments wryly as, shaking his head, he returns his attention to his computer.

“That makes the two of us.” Folding the paper up, I place it on the coffee-table and, knowing from experience that the show isn't over yet, settle back for Act Two. Jane's opinion of having to go undercover as a secretary wasn't great from the very beginning, but now that the stakes are even higher being stuck in an office full of misogynist dinosaurs will be just doing her head in. Playing the traditional, stereo-typed female role isn't her idea of a good time under what passes as normal circumstances, and now that's Will's... injured... and we're all on edge, all she'd really be wanting to do is be out there in the thick of things. To be stuck with simply monitoring and gathering intel, however, well... That's just making an already borderline intolerable situation even worse. Sure, it has its place, but it's also boring and, deep down, you don't really feel as though you're doing anything useful.

“When this is over, I think I might just have to go back to the office and wave my gun around, you know, just to show that women are actually capable of more than typing and knocking back offers of a... 'good time',” Jane announces, popping open the tab on a can of Bud as she flops down on the sofa next to me and props her feet up on the edge of the coffee-table. Dressed in jeans and a fitted black t-shirt, and with her feet bare and her hair pulled back in a loose ponytail, she now looks close to nothing like her current alter-ego of 'bimbo secretary' and I mentally cross my fingers that she's well on her way to calming down. “Just... Bastards! I don't care that they're old and work in the tediously male orientated world of the ports as they just shouldn't be able to get away with it.”

“If you'd like,” Benji pipes up, “when all of this is over I could cut the electricity to their entire operation, crash their database and... reroute the link to their website to a, I don't know, gay website or something. They mightn't know it was your parting gift to them, but I still reckon they'd be pretty pissed off.”

“I like it.” Nodding, Jane laughs and takes a swig of beer. “Only... As much as a gay website would break their brains, make it something red-neck and racist 'cos they're currently very busy ass-kissing the government for a new contract and I think that would offend the officials more.”

“Consider it done,” Benji replies, sneaking a quick glance over his shoulder at me in case I'm about to play the role of party pooper and tell him that, as it wouldn't be proper IMF behaviour, that he's to do no such thing. When I don't say anything – because, quite frankly, be it not an entirely proper use for IMF resources or not, I'm actually, in this instance, all for it – he gives a small shrug and once again turns back to his laptop. “First things first though,” he adds with a sigh, “as first we have to finish the mission.”

“And on that point...” I turn to Jane and give her an expectant look. “I'm taking it that amongst all the fun and games you've experienced today that nothing of interest came up?”

Shaking her head, she takes another mouthful of beer before muttering, “Not a damn thing. Down at the port life is just going on exactly as it has been for every day I've been there. As you'd already know, Nankervis has been in and out of the office all day and, hell, if he's feeling any additional pressure or whatever he's doing a good job of not showing it. In fact...” Trailing off, she frowns and gazes down at her beer can. “I could be wrong, of course, but he's strangely... confident... for a man who... uh... caught a fake Coast Guard snooping around his operation only days before shipping out another container. You'd think he'd be more nervous or something, but... Nothing. It's like, I don't know, he had his sick and twisted fun yesterday and now it's just business as usual. Me, I'd be thinking there'd have to be more coming from wherever it was Will came from, but... not Nankervis. It's like he thinks he's a step ahead of us or something.”

Not liking – anything about this mission – what Jane's saying, I choke back a sigh and rest my head on the back of the sofa. She's right, of course, but not knowing anything more than she does I don't know what to say. Assuming Will was targeted because Nankervis was able to see through his back-story – which, in itself, should have been near on impossible – why isn't the bastard on the look out for his replacement? He'd have to know that one would be coming and that, while, yes, the... warning... he made out of Will was a strong one, it wouldn't just automatically rule out the authorities interest in his activities. If anything he should be thinking it would make them more determined and their... interest... far more heavy handed.

So... What gives? What's going on that we don't yet know about?

Will, groggy from the sedative and already uncomfortable from the painkillers having worn off, wasn't really able to tell us anything of use when he came to yesterday. He tried, because he knew it was expected, but it was clearly all too much for him. All he really managed, before the memories became too real and his breathing became laboured and his eyes weren't able to meet anyone's, was to mumble that he'd been grabbed early in the morning and had came to in a shipping container. Nankervis had been there, along with some other men, most of whom he'd seen around, and the container wasn't an ordinary shipping container as it was kitted out as...

I stopped him there. I had to. To make him explain that it had been kitted out as a S&M dungeon would have been both cruel and unnecessary. By this stage we knew enough to be able to – reluctantly – fill in the gaps ourselves without having to hear it. Making him say it wouldn't have achieved anything and, besides, no one particularly wanted to hear it anyway. Simply... knowing... it, after all, was bad enough. Knowing the extent of his injuries under the blue pyjamas and what he'd been through, that was actually... more... than enough. I've both seen, and been personally involved with a lot of heinous things in my time and, over the years, I've trained myself to be largely immune to them. Shit happens. That's why places like IMF exist and why I do the job I do. You just, because you have to and because your life may well depend on it, take it all in your stride and push forever forward.

This though... I honestly don't know. Whether it was because it had happened to someone I knew, or had occurred on my watch, or... because I felt somehow responsible for him, or... cared about... him, it just eats at me. All of it. That it happened. That he's in pain and may well never be the same again. That we're still in the dark about how exactly it happened and don't know just what the fuck Nankervis is up to. That...

That I can't do anything about any of it.

I can't repair the damage. I can't... help. I just can't do anything.

He was trying, I think, to tell us something, something important in his mind, if the way he locked his fingers into Jane's wrist was anything to go by, but Dr Cavendish chose that exact moment to arrive and promptly sedate him, and – pathetically – I was actually grateful to the doctor for his perfect timing. Will was agitated, Benji was starting to stammer about there having to be something we could do for him, Jane was trying to calm Will down while simultaneously gesturing at Benji to shut the fuck up as he wasn't helping and I, team leader extraordinaire, was doing nothing. Absolutely nothing. I didn't even really want to hear whatever it was he was trying to say as I just wanted to get out of there. While I was more or less pleased with having stayed to see him wake, and stood by my decision to stay, it wasn't a... pleasant... experience for anyone, Will included, and I was just glad when it was over.

The drive back to Baltimore was done in complete silence. At one point Jane reached for the radio controls but, after hovering her fingers indecisively over the on button for a moment or two, changed her mind without switching it on and simply went back to her own thoughts. Even Benji, the king of nervous babble, didn't open his mouth until we were back in the apartment and he'd plugged himself straight back into his computer network. Jane had a shower, I planted my ass on the sofa and waited for Benji to update me, Benji, content that he was finally doing something, confirmed that nothing had changed in Nankervis' world in our absence and, just like that, life – minus one team mate – went on pretty much exactly how it had been. Ditto for today. Jane returned to the office, I went on my planned trawl through Baltimore's underground network making myself known to Nankervis' possible cronies, Benji stayed hooked up to his electronic web and... Here we are. Still none the wiser and still, even if we're not going so far as to voice it, worrying about Will.

Saved from having to come up with an answer to Jane's concerns by my cell ringing, I snatch it up from the coffee-table, check the screen to see if there's a caller ID and, seeing that it's Luther, get up from the sofa and walk into the kitchen to take it.

“Talk to me,” I state by way of greeting as, leaning my back against the bench, I keep one eye on the door through to the living area in order to make sure Jane and Benji don't decide to follow me. I'm not being secretive per se, more that if there's nothing to report from the call I'd just rather they didn't know I'd charged Luther with the task of keeping watch over Will. They wouldn't care, in fact, if anything they'd probably applaud me for it, but it still shows a level of concern I can't help but feel they're better off not knowing I possess in case they... mistakenly, of course... read something into it.

“Your pet desk-monkey, he's a determined S.O.B.,” Luther, much to my immediate annoyance, states with an odd degree of, if I'm not mistaken, cheerfulness. “Seriously...”

“Uh! Don't 'seriously' me,” I interrupt flatly, “and stop fucking referring to him as my pet...”

“If you'd hop off your damn high horse there for a second and actually listened to the tone of voice I was using,” Luther retorts, cutting me off with an amused snort of laughter, “you'd realise that I meant it as a compliment. I mean, man, seriously, he's got a pair on him.”

“Perhaps not the best... compliment... to be using at the moment,” I mutter begrudgingly as, having caught my attention, I hope he gets quickly to the point of his call. “But, okay, fine. If you say it was a compliment then, fine, it was a compliment. What, however, has he done to finally get you to sing his praises?”

“Well, dutifully doing as you asked, I wandered down to the infirmary this afternoon to check in on him, only to find that he wasn't even there. That he had, in fact, done a disappearing act and was nowhere to be found.”

Okay. That would just about have to be the last thing I expected to hear. “Yet... You... found him, I presume?”

“Of course I fucking found him. Do you honestly think I'd be calling to share with you the news that your pet... uh... that your agent was missing somewhere in the wilds of headquarters?”

“Well, no. But...”

“The mob in the infirmary not being able to think outside their little medically orientated square, they didn't even know where to start and were just running around like headless chickens. One was even checking under all of the beds, you know, just in case he'd decided to set up camp there.”

“So... You took control and...” I prompt, using my free hand to rub my temple in a futile attempt to stave off the headache I can feel forming.

“Looked at the Big Brother footage from all those damn cameras they've got hooked up all over the place, of course,” Luther replies matter-of-factly. “Given that he wasn't making any attempt to stay hidden, tracking him was easy.”

“And...? Where was he?”

“Like a homing pigeon, although in this case an incredibly slow moving one wearing those damn blue infirmary pyjamas, he made his way all across the building to the Analysts Section.”

“But...” Shit. “That's on the other side of the building.”

“Tell me about it.”

“But... Why didn't anyone stop him and take him straight back to the infirmary?” Pale, wearing pyjamas and limping... Just how the fuck was he able to make it all that way without anyone reporting him to the infirmary? And... What the hell did he think he was doing anyway?

“The Gods clearly smiling on him, he didn't meet anyone in the corridors or the elevator and once he made it there all the desk-monkeys just gave him a wide berth,” Luther mutters with a snort. “Seriously, and you wonder why I rag on the intel-obsessed freaks? There he was, and I swear he was shaking by the time he got there, sitting in their midst and not one of them bothered to go up to him to ask just what the hell he was doing, let alone to check whether he was okay. I tell you, man, it was disgusting.”

“I think there's a couple of them in there that are okay,” I sigh as, giving up on the temple rubbing, I move away from the bench and start pawing through drawers in search of painkillers. “The rest though, you're right, they don't like him. Not only do they not, as a general rule, like agents all that much, but when Will first arrived there he was instantly promoted to Chief Analyst which, well, put quite a few noses out of joint. Then, once they'd... accepted... him, he announced that he was returning to field work and think, just like that, they instantly granted him public enemy number one status.”

“Still think it wouldn't have killed any of them to have gone over to check on him. As it was they just sat there peering at him and frowning.”

“Just... I don't want to know any more.” Finding paracetamol in the last drawer in the entire kitchen, I tip two pills out onto the bench and dry swallow them before adding, “What was he doing, anyway? For him to have put himself through both the... trek... and the silent scrutiny, it must have been important.”

“As I said a moment ago, he's a determined S.O.B..”

“Yeah... But what was so important that he had to leave the infirmary?”

“He wanted full access to the IMF network and, because half the staff there are civilians, the infirmary computers weren't of any use to him because they're all blocked from accessing most of the stuff on the database.”

Okay. That makes sense, I suppose. But... “What was he looking for?”

“The leak.”

“Excuse me?”

“The source of the leak,” Luther repeats. “He's convinced that the reason the mission's been compromised is because there's a leak coming from within HQ.”

“Oh.” Fuck.

“Yeah. Oh...”

“But... He's not up to this and needs to rest.”

“I tried telling him that, but his only concern is you lot.”

“But...” Goddamn it. I appreciate Will's dedication and the effort he's going to, but right now his own health should be his only priority. If he honestly thinks there's a leak, he should put someone else on the trail and not worry about it. I know it's easier said than done, but I can't handle the thought of him putting himself through this additional hell at the moment. And as for those... desk-monkeys in the Analysts Section, well, they'd just better hope none of them cross my path in the near future as they're not going to like very much what I have to say to them. Even if you do think someone is a turncoat, you don't, you just don't, ignore them when they're so obviously unwell and in need of assistance. Luther's right. They are freaks.

“Chill. I dragged his ass back to the infirmary and scared a desk-monkey into ensuring he had full access on a laptop in his room.”

“I still don't think...”

“It would take a braver man than me to stop him. He's asleep at the moment, but I can tell you now that the second he's awake he'll be back on the laptop. Hell, he's so adamant that he's going to see this through that he threatened Cavendish that he'd discharge himself if he wasn't allowed to work.”

Sighing, I rest my back against the bench again and drum my fingers against the bench top. “He hasn't come up with anything yet?” I query, knowing when – there's not a thing I can do about any of it – I'm beaten and may as well just accept what's being handed to me.

“Not yet, but he made me promise to tell you to watch your backs and that, whatever it takes, he'll get to the bottom of it.”

“Tell him, thanks, and that we will,” I reply. “You're still okay with keeping an eye on him though, yeah? I know I'm probably only wasting my breath, but I really don't want him to pushing himself too hard and would feel better knowing you were around to...”

“I ain't going nowhere,” Luther interrupts. “I wasn't, anyway, but now I want to know what's going on as well. It's okay, Ethan, I'm here for him and I'll keep you updated. Just... Again, watch your backs. He wouldn't be doing this to himself if he didn't genuinely believe there was a problem.”

“No. He wouldn't.”

Luther not having anything else he needed to tell me, he ends the call with yet another repeated warning to watch our backs and a promise to call the second Will comes up with anything before hanging up and effectively leaving me in an even worse frame of mind than I'd been in when I picked up the phone.

There's a possible leak in HQ. Will's determined to locate it even though his sole focus should be on his convalescence.

And... Here in Baltimore, at the coalface of the mission, so to speak, we're all but completely in the dark.

It's just not right.

~*~*~*~*~*~

My phone receiving a text message at the exact same time as Benji's, we move in unison to retrieve our cells from our pockets and read the both simple and to the point instruction on the screen.

ABORT

This one word, the immediate cancellation of everything up until this point, is followed by a twelve character code that, as I move across the room to join him, Benji quickly enters into the computer before glancing over his shoulder and nodding.

“It's legit.”

“Great,” I groan, leaning over Benji and reading for myself the official IMF authorisation code on the screen of his laptop. “Send a message to Jane confirming its authenticity and direct her to get straight back here by whatever means necessary.”

“Will do,” Benji replies, his fingers flying with an almost elegant speed over the keyboard. “Done,” he adds with another nod. “And... Look. There's her read receipt. All being well she should be back with us in less than thirty minutes.”

“Mmm...” My phone ringing, I see with relief that it's Luther calling and quickly answer it. “Talk about cutting it fine,” I state, glancing at my watch and rolling my eyes. “In twenty more minutes time I'd have been walking in on a meet. Nankervis finally came through this morning with an offer to meet up and, yeah, it was going to take place shortly.”

“Yeah, well, I told you to watch your back,” Luther drawls, sounding completely unmoved by what appears to have been a too close for comfort near miss. “It wouldn't have been mine or Will's fault if you'd ignored the warning and gone blundering in anyway.”

Will. Fuck me. Not pet desk-monkey, or determined S.O.B., he actually, for the very first time, used his name. If I didn't have more pressing matters on my mind I'd draw it to his attention but, luckily for Luther, there's a few more important points I need to cover first. “I wouldn't have been... blundering... in,” I mutter. “I was armed, tagged, and Benji would have been outside in a car.”

“And seeing as Nankervis would have been expecting exactly that, you'd still have been fucked,” Luther announces bluntly. “Will was right. There... is... a leak and, after tracking it to the tech office, dug deeper...”

“Hang on,” I interrupt, giving a nod of acknowledgement to Benji as, his expression as curious as it is impatient, he gazes up at me, “I'm just going to put you on speaker so Benji can participate as well.” Once I've pressed the button on the phone to do this, I place it on the desk by Benji's laptop and add, “Okay. Go for it. Will traced the leak to the tech office and...”

“And discovered that some dude called Richard Franklin has a special friend in Baltimore that he's been spilling his guts to.”

“Richard Franklin... Richard Franklin,” Benji muses, frowning. “Ah! I know him. Geeky, even by us tech guys usual standards, and... Uh... Yeah. I think he's one of those Trekkies that can actually speak fluent Klingon. So, you know, not exactly what you'd call a... catch.”

“So... Let me get this straight, some... Trekkie... in the tech office has been leaking...”

“Not leaking exactly, more... pillow talking his so-called girl with exciting tales of what IMF are up to in her home town of Baltimore. I'm thinking the geeky bastard thought it made him look like more of a man in her eyes or something. According to him, oh, and Trekkie or not the dude can sure cry like a little girl, she never asked him anything and he only did it to look important.”

“And, don't tell me, let me guess, his girl is...”

“A very close and personal friend of Nankervis' son, Mark, who just happens to be up to her neck in the... family business,” Luther replies. “Given that she'd not long left the area after having a lunch time... date... in a dive of a motel room with Franklin, we were able to scoop her up and we've got her in interrogation now where, not liking our hospitality much, she's singing like the proverbial canary. Mark put her up to it, she cracked onto Franklin after an... accidental... meeting in the coffee shop across the road from here, he immediately fell head over heels for her and, you know, the rest is history. He told her that there was an IMF agent undercover at the port as a Coast Guard and when she blew, literally, his tiny mind at that nugget of info he went digging deeper and stumbled across what the rest of the team was up to. Our timing being borderline, he'd given her everything he knew during their rendezvous at lunch and I'd bet my life that she'd already shared it with Mark before we picked her up.”

“Fuck!” Sinking down in the chair next to Benji's, I bang my hands – most likely to Luther's disgust, given that it's close to where the phone's resting – down on the table and scowl. “Just... Fuck! The mission's blown, Will's in the infirmary, Nankervis is going to get away with shipping another container of arms to the Middle East, all... because some fucking Trekkie couldn't believe his luck at getting some? I... Goddamn it! I hope he's still taking up space in a cell when I get back because I'm going to...”

“Take a chill pill and listen,” Luther commands, smoothly cutting me off mid-rant. “Little Miss Skank having gone into self-protection mode, she's only too happy to do whatever is asked of her and we've already come up with a new plan for you.”

“Oh. You have, have you?”

“If you must know, it was Will's idea. So... There. Does that make you feel better about things?”

Yes. But I'm not going to tell Luther that. “First tell me the idea.”

“We're going to get her to sell it to Nankervis that far more authorities are on to him than he thought and that, as they're closing in fast, if he doesn't want to spend the rest of his miserable life behind bars he'd better drop everything and get out of town now.”

“But...” Not looking convinced at the logic, even if it is Will's, who I'm confident he thinks is the most logical person he knows, of the plan, Benji frowns and shakes his head. “If he thinks the walls are closing in on him, won't he just shut up shop and bolt?”

“That he will. First, however, he'll have to go to a hidden safe in the first office he ever had and, because it holds absolutely everything relating to the business, not to mention a shit load of cold hard cash, clear it out before he can safely go anywhere.”

“And... That's where we'll be waiting for him,” I declare as, it all making perfect sense to me, I both nod and grin at Benji. “We'll get Nankervis and the paperwork together. It... It's brilliant.”

“Well, we thought so,” Luther retorts. “The plan is to let Nankervis stew tonight before firing him up in the morning. So... Sit tight tonight, stay safe and, once we get the address to you, beat the bastard to his old office and just nab him. It's pretty simple, yeah, but we reckon it'll work.”

“I think it will too,” I confirm. “Just... Luther, you're a life saver.”

“Me?” he snorts. “I'm only the messenger. It's Will you need to be thanking. He was the one who was not only convinced there was a leak but also did all of the work. I... At the risk of this going to your head, I know now what you see him and, seriously, if he wasn't already taken I wouldn't say no to him being on my team.”

“It's not me you should be telling that to,” I murmur, magnanimously not rubbing Luther's nose in his backing down over Will's... usefulness. “I told you all along that he's far more than just a desk-monkey.”

“Desk-monkey?” Benji echoes, his shock at hearing his friend referred to that way causing him to blink at me owlishly. “Will's not...”

“No. He's not,” Luther interrupts, sighing. “I know that now and, look, I'm sorry for ever daring to doubt either him or you, okay? Just... Let it drop and build a fucking bridge already.”

“How is he, anyway?” I query, deciding to once again let Luther off the hook and change the subject. “Seeing as this seems to have taken a fair bit of work, he must be exhausted.”

“Sound asleep and completely out of it,” Luther replies. “As glad as I am that we've stopped you from walking into a trap, I'm also glad that it's over our end as well because I don't think he's got anything left in him. The course of PEP is beginning to kick in and I get the impression he's not feeling particularly well.”

Okay. Now that I didn't really want to hear. “All being well we'll be able to tie everything up this end tomorrow and should be able to come straight back to D.C.. Just... Thank him for us and tell him to stay in bed, yeah, and we'll see him ourselves shortly.”

“Will do. Now... Sit tight. Stay safe. And I'll get the address to you as soon as I have it tomorrow.”

“Thanks, Luther.” Ending the call, I glance at Benji and shrug. “So much for our plans, huh?”

“More like... Thank God for Will, huh?” he retorts, jumping to his feet as the front door opens and Jane walks into the living area. “And... While I'm at it, thank God for Jane having got out.”

“So...” Repeating her forceful shoe-kicking off routine from last night, Jane dumps her bag on the sofa before, with a sigh that's as relieved sounding as it is award winning for effort, flopping down next to it. “What did I miss?”

~*~*~*~*~*~

“Remind me, yeah, the next time I delude myself that things are actually going entirely our way for a change” I comment drily as I stand, flat footed and nonplussed, in the doorway and take in the decidedly unexpected scene before me, “to, well, simply not to bother, that history tells us I'd only be wasting my time anyway.”

“But...” Crowding into the doorway next to me, Jane glances around the room and shrugs. “They... had... been going our way up until now,” she murmurs as she walks over to the neatly made bed and takes a seat on the edge of it. “And this... This is only a minor... upset. Nothing major, as I'm sure there's a logical reason behind it, just a random... blip.”

She's right, on all accounts, but, still... Just for once I'd like to make it fully through a day where everything went perfectly to plan. I'm not holding my breath for it ever happening any time soon but, as happy little futile daydreams go, it's one of my favourites. Just a day, one day is all that I'm asking, where not one single thing goes wrong, everything plays nice and doesn't cause us to deviate from our plans and no random, regardless of how minor they may be all things considered, blips materialise out of nowhere to throw us a curve ball. It would just be – astonishing – nice, that's all. An amazing anecdote – 'Let me tell you about the day, the glorious, one in a billion day, where everything, that's right, everything went entirely to plan' – to tell other agents over one too many beers every now and again.

Until now I'd actually been thinking that today might have – miracle of miracles – been such a day. The girlfriend of Nankervis' son, who I only know by the charming title of Little Miss Skank as Luther never saw fit to share her real name with me, played her role as though she believed it would score her an Oscar nomination and Will's plan never deviated from his carefully prepared script. She coughed up the address of Nankervis' old office, the one under the alias we hadn't yet linked to him and may never have been able to find without her, and we were there lying in wait for the bastard when, looking gratifyingly flustered and as if a pack of hell hounds were snapping at his heels, he and his son arrived to clear out his safe. Perhaps even more gratifyingly, he made the – foolishly terminal – mistake of trying to escape by holding a gun to Jane's head and attempting to use her as a hostage. Needless to say he didn't live to dissect the error of his ways and my only regret is that Benji was in a better position to take the kill shot and all I got to do was kick his already dead corpse. While, yes, I would have preferred to have been the one to take him down, the end result is still the same and the perverted bastard is no longer amongst the living. All's well, in other words, that ends as well as can ever be reasonably expected.

Nankervis is dead, his son, Mark, is in custody and all the details of his arrangements with the arms traffickers are already in the sweaty paws of the desk-monkeys and Franklin, the Star Trek loving geek who I'm only one small step off holding personally responsible for what happened to Will, is being kept – for his own good, not mine – safely out of both my sight and reach. The Baltimore operation is finalised, no one will ever be able to find any signs that we were ever there, the paperwork is filed, we're back in D.C. with a couple of days off to look forward to and, again...

Until now things had just been going along nicely. Apparently, however, too nicely and, yet again, I should have known better than to honestly expect them to continue.

“Mmm... In a life full of random... blips,” I mutter, following Jane's lead and walking further into the empty room as Benji, never being one to miss an opportunity to ask the obvious, blithely poses the question we all wish we already had the answer to.

“Where's Will?”

“With the exception of being able to tell you where he's not,” Jane starts, laughing as she gestures expansively around his both empty and clearly no longer in use suite, “I have absolutely no idea where is. He should, I would think, be still here, but...”

“He was still here this morning,” I add, frowning as, stepping around Benji, I poke my head out of the door and look around the silent infirmary for signs of life, “because, even though he shouldn't have been and should have been in bed resting, he was helping Luther run Little Miss Skank's interrogation. Maybe...” Not seeing anyone to ask, I shrug, step back into the room and follow Benji's lead by murmuring the glaringly obvious. “Maybe he's just moved room? He, after all, has to be somewhere.”

“Just not where he's supposed to be,” Benji sighs with a shrug as he joins Jane in sitting on the mattress. “I... I hope he's okay and hasn't had a relapse or something from pushing himself too hard.”

“Given that this is the infirmary's premier suite, even if he had had a relapse he'd still be here. Just...” Sighing, I spin around and start to walk out of the room again. “Wait here while I find someone to...”

“There'll be no need for that,” a brusque, sadly familiar voice announces as, arriving in the doorway and blocking my exit, my least favourite infirmary nurse appears out of nowhere. Perfectly normal, even slightly attractive, in her appearance and nothing like the stereo-typed, tall, hard faced and imposing – battleaxe – nurses that litter popular fiction and medical themed television shows the world over, Nurse Bishop has a grating, take no prisoners personality that has rubbed me the wrong way from the very first time I had the misfortune of being tendered to by her and we can't help but... spark... off each other every time we meet.

“Agent Hunt,” she adds, coolly looking me up and down. “To what do I owe this particular... honour?”

Quickly deciding that flashing her a saccharine smirk and murmuring something along the lines of it simply being her lucky day wouldn't do either of us any favours, I settle on giving a small shrug and flashing her a bland, harmless smile. “Having finished our mission we were simply hoping to pay a visit to our team mate to bring him up to speed on everything.”

“Agent Brandt?” Her expression clearly telling me that, if anything, she feels I've lost yet more IQ points since we last met, she frowns and shakes her head. “He's not here. Surely even you're capable of seeing that.”

“Oddly enough, I had somehow managed to come to exactly the same conclusion myself,” I retort, drawing myself up to my full height and, because I know it pushes her buttons, looking down at her. “No one having mentioned anything to the contrary, we thought...”

“He was discharged early this afternoon,” she interrupts, shifting her narrow-eyed gaze onto Jane and Benji and, by the power of her expression alone, causing both of them to immediately stand up and move away from the bed. “Too arrogant...”

“Uh... Excuse me?” Favouring the nurse with a distinctly narrow-eyed glare of my own, I fold my arms across my chest and scowl “I won't have you talk about my agent that way and...”

“He wouldn't listen to Dr Cavendish and repeatedly took things into his own hands by leaving the infirmary and...”

“And the reason he kept leaving the infirmary was because he wanted to do whatever he could to assist the successful completion of our mission. If that makes him arrogant in your...”

“It does. He was wilfully disobedient and...”

“Nurse Bishop!” I exclaim, having well and truly had enough of her trying to force her opinion on me and wanting to put an end to it right now. Arrogant? Wilfully disobedient? I've always known her to have some sort of bug up her ass, but referring to Will of all people this way is just a step too far and I'll be damned if I'm going to take it. “I will not stand here listening to you insult my friend this way and, by keeping to the mere basics, I want you to just tell me where he is.”

Hiding her displeasure at the fact I'm daring to stand up to her behind both a snort and a dismissive shake of her head, she makes a point of coldly meeting my gaze and mutters, “As I've already said, he was discharged this afternoon. Given that he was hardly ever in his bed as it was, it was decided that there was no point in him continuing to be here and that he may as well go home. The infirmary is not only for those who need to be here, but also for those willing to take direction and...”

“Seeing as he's no longer here, there's also no reason for us to remain in your... pleasant as always... company,” I finish flatly, glancing over my shoulder at the others and tilting my head towards the door. “Come on. Let's get out of here.”

“The pig headed stupidity,” she snaps, wanting as always to get the last word in, “I suspect he learned it from you.”

“That may well be the case,” Jane murmurs, grabbing my arm and pulling me out of the room as, bristling with annoyance, I glower at the nurse, “but who taught you to be such a fucking bitch?” Her piece said and with Benji choking back muffled laughter, she succeeds in bundling me out into the corridor and, not wanting to tempt fate, doesn't let go of my arm until we're in the elevator heading down to the underground parking lot. “Just... Breathe,” she adds, shooting me a warning look. “She's not worth it. Regardless of her take on things, Will's gone home and that's just all there is to it.”

Sighing as the elevator reaches the parking lot and the doors glide quietly open, I rub my hands over my face and nod. “I just don't think he should have been... evicted... for having had other priorities than his own health,” I mutter, stepping out onto the oil stained concrete floor and glancing around for my Mercedes. “That, and from what I've read about it online, the course of PEP he's on, if he's going to get any of the side effects associated with it they usually kick in around the third or fourth day, which... would be around now.”

“So we go around to his place and make sure he's okay,” Jane states, digging her keys out of her pocket and dangling them on her finger. “I'm sure everything's fine. Will, contrary to what that bitch in the infirmary thinks, isn't stupid and he wouldn't have gone if he didn't feel up to it.”

“Uh...” Scuffing his foot along the concrete as he glances at his watch and frowns, Benji shoots Jane a vaguely worried look before, apparently having made his mind up about something, shrugging and nodding to himself. “Never mind,” he murmurs. “As I probably won't need it anyway, let's go and see Will.”

“Your car,” Jane groans, miming a smack to her forehead. “Shit. Sorry, Benji. I'd forgotten all about taking you to pick up your car from the garage.” Placing her hand on Benji's arm and giving it a reassuring squeeze, she turns to me and, by way of explanation, adds, “That piece of junk Mini he insists on driving has, as I'm sure you've already guessed, been in the shop getting fixed... yet again. They don't open weekends though, and if it's not picked up tonight he won't be able to get it until Monday, and I promised I'd take him to get it once we'd finished here.”

Shrugging again, Benji places his hand over Jane's and smiles. “It's okay though. The car probably calls the garage its second home anyway and may as well just stay there. It's not like I've got any plans or...”

“A promise is a promise,” Jane states, cutting Benji off and giving him a smile of her own. “Come on, Benji. We'll go and get the Mini before they decide to just wreck it once and for all, and Ethan can go and see Will on his own. If he's tired he probably wouldn't want all of us landing on his doorstep anyway and, besides, we can always go and see him tomorrow.”

“But...”

“No buts. The Mini tonight, and Will tomorrow.” Sliding her hand down Benji's arm, Jane grabs his hand and begins to slowly pull him in the direction of her Audi. “Ethan? You okay with this plan, yeah? It's not that we don't care about Will, and it's certainly not as though Benji's ridiculous excuse for a car is more important than him, but I just think all three of us in his face at the moment might be a bit too much. It's, I don't know, different when you're bored and stuck in a hospital room, but in your own home it sometimes feels a bit... intrusive.”

Her logic, even if I can't confess to having ever viewed it that way myself, being irrefutable, I nod and start to walk towards my car. “I'll make sure to let him know that, despite appearances to the contrary, he's more important to you both than Benji's Mini,” I reply lightly, “that, and car troubles notwithstanding, he should be privileged enough to see you tomorrow. How does that sound?”

“Like you're a smart ass, but it'll do,” Jane calls out over her shoulder. “See you tomorrow, then.”

“Mmm... See you. You too, Benji.” Unsure as to why she automatically assumes she'll see me tomorrow as well – but not wanting to make an issue out of it in case she decides to try to explain her version of female intuition to me – I use the remote to unlock the Mercedes and, opening the door, climb behind the wheel. Relieved to be on the move again, I start the engine, pull the door shut and drive the car out of the parking lot. Although I've only been there once, to pick him up en route to the airport for a drop-everything, go-now mission, I know Will's address without having to access his personnel records and estimate that I should be able to reach his home in Arlington in around twenty to twenty-five minutes. I'm still not particularly happy that he's no longer in the infirmary, and the reasons – not being a good boy and staying in bed? – for his discharge strike me as being, well, just... wrong, but, whatever. If knocking on his front door is what it takes to see him, then that's just what I'm going to do. I won't be able to settle tonight without seeing him and, at the risk of appearing as though I have no life outside of IMF whatsoever, it's not as though I had any other plans anyway. So... I'll pay a visit to Will before just going home, having a shower and something to eat, and calling it a night.

It may not be exciting, but at least it's a plan.

Traffic, even though it's close to eight in the evening, being – a complete bitch – on the almost road-rage inducing side of heavy, it takes me near on forty minutes to reach Will's beautifully maintained two-storey home. Pulling into his driveway, I kill the ignition and, not having enjoyed my drive one iota and feeling far more on edge that I'd have liked, stare through the windscreen at the dark, seemingly abandoned house. Mentally crossing my fingers that's he's not asleep as I don't really want to be responsible for blundering in and waking him, I climb out of the car and, after softly shutting the door behind me, walk up to the front door. Pressing my ear against the highly polished wood, I listen for any signs of life coming from inside the house and, when I don't hear any, very reluctantly press my finger into the doorbell. Sadly this too doesn't generate any sounds of movement and, stepping back from the door in order to gaze up at the windows, I'm not all that certain as to what I should do next.

Seeing as Will needs his rest, if he's asleep I probably should just get back in my car and leave now. He'll be still here tomorrow and, even if it means proving Jane's premonition of seeing me realised, I can always just come back then.

That said, what if something is... wrong... and he simply can't come to the door? There shouldn't be, and, Nurse Bishop's petulant whine aside, I'm confident that he wouldn't have been discharged if he hadn't been well enough to fend for himself, but...

Why isn't he answering the door?

Sighing, I move away from the door and, all the time dithering over what I should do, begin to walk around the outside of the house. Most of the drapes being closed and the only light inside coming from a room without an exterior window somewhere in the middle of the house, I can't really see anything of either interest or concern until, standing on tiptoe and peering through a small window into the laundry, I see something that immediately makes my mind up for me.

Taking in the sight of a body sized shape lying sprawled on the floor in the dimly lit corridor in front of the laundry, I swear under my breath and run back to the front door. Unsure as to what, if indeed anything, I'm about to walk in to, I quickly pick the lock, draw my weapon and step inside. Despite being concerned about Will, ensuring my own safety has to be my number one priority and, silently closing the door behind me, I stand perfectly still as, once again, I listen for any sounds of movement in the house. Not hearing any, I swiftly ensure that all the downstairs rooms are clear before jogging up to the body on the floor and confirming with a concern-tinged degree of relief that it is actually Will and that, by placing my fingers against the pulse in his neck and feeling it beat against them strongly, he's merely unconscious. Needing to check, even though I'm fairly confident that he's simply passed out and hasn't been assaulted by an intruder, the upstairs rooms just to be sure, I gently ruffle his hair and run up the stairs.

My suspicions thankfully – well, in one respect at least – being proven correct, I quickly return to Will after having confirmed that we're alone in the house and crouch down next to him. Adding the fact he's dressed in black pyjama pants and a long sleeved grey t-shirt to the sight of the unmade bed in the master bedroom upstairs and coming up with the workable theory of him having come downstairs for something and just having passed out, I carefully close my hand around his shoulder and very gently attempt to shake him awake.

“Hey, Will... Come on, wake up and I'll help you back to bed.”

While he's – very – pale, I can't see anything to indicate that he's either hit his head on the way down or been assaulted, and actually breathe an audible sigh of relief when his eyelids flutter open and, with a low moan, he squirms away from my hand and struggles into a half-sitting position. Blinking in the dim light, he gazes in my general direction without giving any indication of recognising me and, groaning, slumps against the wall.

“Will?” Reaching out my hand, I make what instantly goes down in history as a stupid mistake by lightly touching his shoulder and causing him, with a sharp intake of breath and widening of the eyes, to jerk away from me. Now, and, you know, if you're going to fuck something up you may as well do a good job of it I've always thought, he not only looks like death warmed up but also teetering on the edge of sheer terror as well and... I feel like a careless, thoughtless idiot.

“Shit!” Swearing under my breath, I stand up and scurry around switching on as many overhead lights as I can find light switches for. Laundry. Passageway. Kitchen. Living room. I light the ground floor of his house up like a department store in the hope of, if nothing else, allowing him to see that it's someone he actually knows... accidentally mauling... him as opposed to just some random stranger and, once this is done, quickly return to where he's still – cowering – on the floor.

“See?” Crouching back down in what I seriously hope is a safe, non threatening distance away from Will, I choose to put down the fact he's now blinking at me down to the sudden brightness instead of a complete lack of recognition on his part and flash him a shaky interpretation of a – 'hi there, it's me' – smile. “Will? It's okay. It's me, Ethan.”

“Ethan?” Will murmurs dubiously as, closing his eyes, he rubs his hands over his face and groans again. “What are you doing here? Actually... Where's.. here... anyway? I... I appear to be having a little difficulty getting my bearings...”

Seeing as he's sitting on the floor of his own home, I really think his comment about having a 'little difficulty' getting his bearings is perhaps the understatement of the month yet, oddly enough however, I also think I'd do well to keep this particular snippet to myself and settle for simply gesturing around the passageway. “You're in your own house and you're on the floor outside the laundry,” I reply. “You're also completely safe, and the reason I'm here is because you weren't in the infirmary when we got back from Baltimore and, well, when I got here I saw through the window you were out cold on the floor and had to break in.”

“Oh.” Opening his eyes, Will holds his head in his hands and, frowning in concentration, peers at me closely. “The infirmary... I... I remember being kicked out of the infirmary and getting a cab home, then...” Falling abruptly silent, he clamps his hand over his mouth and, moving with an actually quite impressive amount of grace and speed given the sad and sorry sight he makes, jumps to his feet and bolts for the laundry.

I've barely gotten to my feet before the telltale sounds of dry retching reach my ears and, walking into the laundry, I'm not at all surprised to find Will doubled over the sink. One of the major side effects of the PEP is nausea and I suspect that that's not only what he's currently experiencing but that's it's also to blame for his passing out. If he came downstairs to get a drink or something and came over as light headed as a result of all the throwing up then, yes, absolutely he could have passed out as a consequence. It's not pleasant – and, actually, that in itself is a contender for the coveted Understatement Award – and I wish he didn't feel this way, but at least it makes sense. That and, one way or another, I should be able to do something about it.

Moving behind Will, I – suffer a monumental brain fade – place my hand on his hip in what was meant solely as a soothing, 'you're not alone' gesture. Just as my hand on his shoulder only a few minutes ago did though, it immediately causes him to flinch and, all the time clutching the edge of the sink as though it's the only thing keeping him upright, he jerks his head around and, breathing raggedly, stares at me through wary, fearful eyes.

“Don't,” he whispers as, feeling just a tad breathless myself, I pull my hand away and take a step back. “Just... Please. Don't.”

Don't... Touch him, period? Or don't... touch him there because it's sore?

Either way, having hopefully learned my lesson this time, I think I'll just err on the side of caution and keep my hands to myself.

“Sorry,” I murmur lamely. “I didn't mean to...”

“I know you didn't,” he sighs, “but I... I just... Shit!” Nausea once again rolling over him, he leans back over the sink and retches... wretchedly.

Feeling – increasingly helpless – like an unwanted voyeur, I hurry into the kitchen and snatch up some tissues from the box on the bench and, returning to the laundry, hold them out towards Will. “Do you feel up to making it back to bed?” I query, swiftly stepping backwards once he's taken the tissues from me. “I'm taking it that this, the nausea, is the reason behind the lying on the floor and very nearly giving me a heart attack, yeah?”

“It's been on and off since I got home,” Will confirms with a grimace as, pressing the tissues against his mouth, he turns the cold water on and rinses out the sink. “I... I think I must have wanted a drink and... Uh... It looks like I should have just stayed in bed.”

“Or the infirmary,” I mutter, shrugging. “You're here now though, so... Bed. Is there anything I can do to help get you back upstairs?”

“I can do it,” Will, just as I knew he would, replies. His paleness and the thin veil of sweat glistening on what skin I can see would raise a question mark over him being capable of actually standing up straight, let alone making his way up a flight of stairs to his bedroom, but the expression on his face counters it well and truly and tells me that – even if it were to take him an hour and involve him having to crawl on all fours – he's adamant he can do it without assistance.

“Fine.” I don't bother arguing with him or pushing the point because I know it simply wouldn't achieve anything. He's sick, slightly overwrought, wary and I suspect, even if it is for no other reason than instinct, a little embarrassed at appearing weak. None of it being his fault, I know its not weakness and that he has nothing to be embarrassed about but what I also know is that trying to get this through to him now just wouldn't work. So... I'll keep quiet, not push my luck, do what I can to get him into bed, and then call Dr Cavendish to see what he can do about the nausea. I'd like to do more, but, seeing as it's better than nothing, it'll do for now.

“Come on, then,” I add, walking out of the laundry and, with a casual glance over my shoulder, waiting for him in the passageway.

Sighing, Will shuffles after me and, making a point of keeping his head lowered and his gaze averted, slowly makes his way out of the laundry and towards the stairs. Although it's slow going, I leave him in peace and don't follow him up the stairs until he's reached the landing and is heading in the direction of his bedroom. Once he's reached his doorway, I quickly catch up and walk into the room behind him.

“You okay?” I murmur as, looking far from it, he sinks down on the edge of the bed and rubs his hands over his face. “Do you want, I don't know, a bowl or something?”

“Try a bullet,” Will mutters drily as, with a sigh, he stretches out on the mattress and wearily pulls the bedding up. “I... I'm all for this PEP stuff, I really am, but... Oh God, I honestly can't recall ever having felt so... hideously... sick before. It... It's just like adding insult to injury.”

“I know... Just...” Noticing both the neat collection of pill bottles all but covering his bedside table and how out of place they look in his elegant, comfortably appointed room, I echo Will's sigh and shift a little closer to the bed. “Get some rest. I'm going to call Dr Cavendish and hopefully he'll be able to do something about it for you.”

“Again... A bullet would do. Put me out of my misery.”

I shake my head. “A bullet would be too permanent. Just... Let's try Dr Cavendish first, yeah? This... Thing's will get better, you'll see.”

“Glad at least one of us is feeling confident of that,” Will mutters as, draping his arm over his forehead, he closes his eyes. “Uh... Ethan... I'm sorry for putting you out. I'm sure you've got better things to...”

“You're not putting me out,” I interrupt, “and, seeing as your well being is my current number one aim in life, I most certainly don't have anything better to do with my time, so... Shhh... Just try to get some sleep while I call the doctor.” My – admittedly heartfelt – statement made, I leave the bedroom before Will has time to reply and, pulling my phone out of my pocket, make my way downstairs. Crossing my fingers, in this case – not wanting to take any chances – literally, I dial the number for the infirmary and hope like crazy that Nurse Bishop doesn't answer. To my great relief the call is picked up by a friendly sounding nurse whose name I don't recognise and once I've identified myself she's only too happy to transfer me through to Dr Cavendish cell. Catching him just as he's about to get into his car and leave for the night, I bring him up to speed on Will's condition and – while this doesn't make up for discharging him in the first place, it does go some small way towards making up for it – he promises to call by on his way home. Once I've given him the address, I end the call and, not knowing what to do with myself, walk aimlessly into the kitchen and decide to kill time by trying to work out how to use Will's coffee machine.

Putting my own to shame, pushing buttons on it and working out where everything goes keeps me occupied until the doctor arrives and, even more impressively, while he's upstairs seeing Will I actually succeed in getting a cup of coffee out of it. Mentally congratulating myself on having beaten a coffee machine into submission, I've just taken a sip of – somewhat odd tasting, lukewarm – coffee when Dr Cavendish walks into the kitchen and places his leather doctor's bag on the bench.

“As I suspect you've already worked out, the nausea is merely a side effect of the PEP,” he states, pointedly retrieving his car keys from his pocket and placing them on the bench by his bag. “Studies have proven that the side effects, if the patient is going to experience any, usually start around the third to forth day, and that one...”

“In four get the side effects far worse than others,” I finish, wrinkling my nose at the coffee as, not knowing where I went wrong, I tip it down the sink. “I read up on it and, his luck really having deserted him this week, it looks as though Will's one of those one in four.”

“It's certainly looking that way,” Dr Cavendish confirms. “While it's imperative that the full course is completed, in most cases patients, even for those with the worst of the side effects, generally begin to improve after the first week. Agent Brandt will just have to hang in there and ride it out.”

“I'll be sure to tell him that,” I mutter, shrugging as I lean against the bench and give the doctor a wry look. “Now, what about the nausea? Were you able to give him something to help with that?”

“I gave him an intramuscular injection of Haloperidol which will act as both an anti-emetic and, because his body needs the rest, a sedative. All being well he'll sleep for about twelve hours and should wake up feeling at least a little bit better,” he explains, picking his keys up and dangling them somewhat obviously on his finger. “I've left, on his bedside table, a number of skin patches which are, of course, also anti-emetics, and you'll need to ensure one is applied to a patch of clean, dry skin, most likely on his upper arm.”

“Excuse me?” I'm fairly confident I heard the doctor correctly but, wanting to know for sure, just have to go and seek clarification. “Uh... I'll... have to ensure...?”

“He either has someone stay with him until his health allows him to be trusted to be on his own, or I'll have to re-admit him to the infirmary right now,” Dr Cavendish retorts bluntly. “The side effects have come on both more suddenly and strongly than I'd hoped and with the benefit of hindsight I regret having discharged this afternoon. I can see now it was a mistake and am willing to rectify it by taking him back to the infirmary myself tonight unless...” Pausing, he fixes me with an oddly calculating look. “Unless of course you could think of someone who'd be willing to remain with him and who, seeing as we obviously didn't do a very good job of it, could ensure that he actually puts his own health needs first for a change. If you can think of anyone like that he should be able to remain here at home, otherwise...”

“I give you my word that someone will remain here with him at all times,” I state, cutting him off as forcefully quashing the urge to compliment him on his cunning, manipulativeness – which, actually, isn't even required because, for one thing, Will's my agent, which makes him my responsibility and, secondly, as though there's honestly any chance of me being able to just up and leave him like this anyway – I push away from the bench and begin to walk towards the front door. “Thanks for coming out, Dr Cavendish. If there are any changes for the worse in his condition I'll give you a call.”

Seeing the doctor out, I watch his Porsche until it disappears from sight and try not to give in to the unfamiliar sensation of doubt that's trying it's hardest to settle over me.

Care for Will, who doesn't want to be touched and who probably just wants to be left alone?

I'll give it my best shot, of course I will, but...

All I can do is hope we... both... get through whatever it is that's coming in one piece.

~*~*~*~*~*~


	3. Chapter 3

~*~*~*~*~*~

I'm not one for giving up. In fact, the mere idea of ever 'throwing in the towel' goes so far against my nature that it's just completely foreign to me. Regardless of the obstacles placed in my way or, sadly, more often than not the never-ending threats to my continued existence, I always push on. Doubt may occasionally rear its ugly head but, only ever having one goal, that of success whatever the cost, in sight, I never stop. I've always got to keep moving, keep pushing forever forward and, at the risk of sounding arrogant, I've made it a habit of getting my own – albeit usually highly IMF themed – way. It frequently comes at a cost, be it psychological or physical, but not only is it the price I choose to pay, but it's also always worth it. Always. I do what I have to do, and I'll keep doing it, because, simply put, someone has to.

I don't give up, because I... can't... give up.

End, pretty much, of story.

Right now, however?

I want to give up. I want to back out through the doorway, retreat down the stairs, get into my car and just... get the fuck away. I'm not, unless you count mounting discomfort on both of our parts, achieving anything, I don't especially know what I'm doing or even whether it's the... right... thing to be doing, and...

I'm floundering.

Big time

To take it even further, I'm just about one-hundred percent outside the realm of my designated comfort zone. And I have a broad comfort zone. Very broad. Some would probably even say... too... broad. Climb up the outside of the world's tallest building without a safety harness? Not a problem. Break into the Vatican? Bring it on. Slap on a mask and, pretending to be someone I've only ever read about in files, just walk into the lion's den without either a weapon or backup? Just point me in the right direction. Halo drop into enemy territory? I'm your man.

I've heard it said, and the Secretary may even count on it, that nothing fazes me. While it may not be exactly what I want written on my tombstone – 'Here Lies Ethan Hunt. Nothing Fazed Him.' – nor however can I confess to being bothered by the label. I'm not infallible and I can, contrary to the rumours, actually injure myself as badly as anyone else, but, again, I just do what I have to do. You learn very early on in this line of work that you can't show fear and I've just taken it to the next, logical level. I don't... feel... fear because it opens up too many risk factors and, ultimately, there's no point. I made my peace with most likely dying on the job over a decade ago. I'd rather just fly in on the seat of my pants, trust in my training and skill, and hope for the best than hesitate and die anyway.

Speaking of things I'd rather do...

Just about anything springs to mind. Hell, dressing up in a mankini and platform heels and being made to hand wash every vehicle – aircraft included – in the IMF fleet while representatives of the CIA and FBI stood around watching would... still... be an improvement on my current lot in life.

I'm out of my – very broad – comfort zone, floundering, very fazed, and feel as though I'm sinking fast.

All I want, and, really, I don't think it's too much to ask at all, is for Will to get into the bath I've ran for him. That's all. He could sit the bath while I changed his bedding and then, once he was in a clean pair of pyjamas I could apply Dr Cavendish's anti-emetic skin patch, and... We'd all be happy. Well, slightly... happier, at any rate.

But, no.

Will doesn't want – to do a thing I say – a bath and he's refusing to budge from his, elbows dug in to his knees, head buried in his hands, position on the edge of the mattress. His grey, long sleeved t shirt is sweat stained, he can't, which I'm already beginning to accept as normal, look me in the eye, and I honestly don't know just what the fuck it is I'm supposed to do with him. The skin patch, and even he should realise this given yesterday's nausea, is non-negotiable, but the doctor clearly specified that it needed to be applied to clean – not sweaty – skin and, to my way of thinking, this means he needs to take a bath. If I had any confidence in him being able to remain upright I'd suggest, as it would be quicker, a shower, but he's too weak and I don't want to be responsible for him falling on his ass again. So, a bath – with a low enough water level so as to negate the even worse threat of passing out and possible drowning – it just has to be. I also, even if this is only because I've decided it's simply in the best interests of his continued comfort, feel as though remaking the bed is a necessity and, again, just has to be.

All I have to do, however, is convince Will of my logic and get him to move. Which, given that this stalemate has been going on for ten minutes now, is just easier said that done. A mix of frustration and impatience makes me want to grab him by the arm and simply drag him into the en suite. What's more, if we were in the middle of a mission and I felt his stubbornness was to the detriment of both his well being and the functionality of the team, I would too. Knowing that he currently can't stand being touched though stops me from throwing caution to the winds and attempting to either prod or push him because, to be perfectly honest, I can't bear being looked at as though I'm the long lost descendent of Jack the Ripper. Not by Will, who has the most expressive eyes of anyone I've ever met and who has, on occasion, made me feel curiously weak at the knees just by glancing over at me, anyway. I can, with a sense of indifference, actually, be viewed as the Big Bad by anyone else, but not Will, and especially not now.

Not when he's in such a wretched place and just wants to be left alone.

I understand, at least to some extent, how he's feeling. His physical injuries are causing him pain, the medication he's on is leaving him feeling as though he's been hit by a freight train and, this would be the worst of it, he can't help but feel... emotionally fragile. Instead of being able to simply pull the bedding over his head and work through things in his own time though, he's got a... pushy... audience of one constantly hanging around and who'll neither take no for an answer nor leave him in peace. If our roles were reversed and I was the one sitting on the bed wishing I could just disappear, I... probably would. Disappear, that is. Not before his eyes but, when his back was turned, I'd slip out and, like an animal wanting to lick its wounds in private, just take myself... away. I wouldn't want to be seen to be falling apart by someone I respected and nor would I want to feel as though I was only being a nuisance.

So... I get it. The lingering effects of what happened in that container in Baltimore aside, I do. I'm in both his personal space and his face, I won't go away, and instead of helping him my presence is simply adding to his anguish. I also understand why he's crashed so heavily since leaving the infirmary. Granted, the side effects of the PEP have started, and I could, even though I don't think I am, be wrong, but what's really brought him down so quickly is... having no reason to keep busy. While he was hunting down the leak and helping Luther, he had something to focus and concentrate on and this, in turn, allowed him to ignore his own, health and otherwise, issues. Now though... Nothing. He has nothing to take his mind off the pain, weakness, and unwanted memories. Nor, perhaps, does he feel as though he even has any reason to press on.

I hate it, of course I do, but what can I do? I don't want to be adding to his anguish, and it goes without saying that if I could wave a magic wand and make it all go away I would, but, Hogwarts not having been on offer when I was going to school, I can't miraculously repair him by force of will alone and nor can I just leave him to his own devices.

My unease growing by the second, I might want to, but... I can't.

I'm here for the long haul whether Will likes it or not.

And if that means playing the role of the villain in his eyes if I honestly think it's for his own good, then... Whatever. As always, I'll do what I have to do.

“For God's sake, Will,” I sigh, the exasperation bubbling over in me coming through incredibly clearly in my voice. “Just... Get with the program and get in the damn bath already. Failing that, in a second or two I'm really going to snap and will probably just knock you out and dump you in it myself!”

I realise – my insensitive fucking stupidity – the error of my speak first, think second, big mouth just as Will, with a display of speed I haven't seen from him all morning, drops his hands away from his face and whips his head around to stare at me though shocked, no doubt disgusted eyes.

Knock out. Strip. Get my way regardless of how he feels about it.

Just... Shit.

I probably couldn't have landed a bigger blow to where it current hurts if I'd actually put some effort into it.

“I... Fuck!” Rubbing my fingers across my forehead, I force myself to meet Will's pained gaze. “Will... I... I'm sorry. Really, really sorry. You've got to believe that that was just... an unfunny... attempt to get through to you and that I wouldn't, that I'd never do anything like that and...”

“And... I'm being pathetic,” Will interrupts with a lacklustre shrug. “I... I know you wouldn't, just as I know that you're right and that I need to take a bath. It... It's just...” Trailing off, he shrugs again and, both gingerly and slowly, stands up. “You've already placed clean pyjamas in the en suite, yeah?”

Relieved that I've suddenly, even though I'm not entirely sure what's caused his change of mind, got my way, I nod and step back to let him shuffle past. “They're on the vanity unit. I also placed some bath salts in the water so I really hope that you feel at least a little bit better when you get out.”

Reaching the door to the en suite, Will gives me a tired, resigned look over his shoulder. “It's not like I can feel any worse,” he murmurs.

“You'll feel better, I'm sure,” I reply, gesturing into the en suite. “Uh... Just get in, and you'll see,”

“Well... Here's to hoping.” Walking further into the bathroom, Will closes the door behind him and, wanting to take my meagre victory and run with it, I launch immediately into the task of stripping and remaking his bed. Once this is done though and I'm about to carry the dirty sheets downstairs to the laundry, I can't help myself and, pausing by the door into the en suite, call out, “Everything okay in there?”

While I half expect him not to reply, a very flat sounding, “Fine,” comes back within seconds and, really, it's quite amazing. In that one word, of just one syllable and four letters, what I actually hear is – 'For God's sake, why won't you just leave me alone already?' 

Again, it really is quite amazing how one, bland and uninteresting word can have so many nuances.

“Fine,” I echo, trying to reply in kind but for some reason, instead of it sounding like 'Uh-huh. I hope you know I'm not buying it for a second', it just comes out sounding... dull.

“Rest assured that if I'd been going to drown myself I would have done so by now,” Will retorts with a welcome degree of sarcasm that, because I'll take any positives, however small they may be that I can get at the moment, I put down to the curative qualities of the bath water.

“If you must know I was more worried that you'd decide to reach for the razor blades,” I reply, yet again doing my best to reply in kind. Granted, it's far from a joking matter, one, in fact that I hadn't even considered and kind of wish he hadn't suddenly planted in my head, but... If Will's choosing to make light of the situation this way then who am I to argue? God knows I'd take dark humour over sullen silence any day.

“Sadly the only razor in here is electric and, before you ask, the cord won't reach the bath.”

“So you're thwarted at all turns then?”

“Appears that way.”

“In which case, I'll... be seeing you shortly?”

“If you have to.”

“Trust me, I do.”

“That's what I thought you'd say.”

“Good to see we're finally on the same page.”

“Well, you know where to find me.”

“Thankfully, I do.” My last response coming out a little more... heartfelt... than I'd have liked given how well our – almost normal – banter had been going, I swiftly decide to quit while I'm arguably ahead and leave Will to it. “Hey, I'm going to go downstairs now to see what sort of mess Jane has made out of your kitchen. Want anything while I'm down there?”

“As I'm sure you'd still say that a bullet was out of the question, no, thank you. I can't think of anything I want,” Will replies, sighing. “I... Really, Ethan, I'm fine. I'm in the bath as you wanted and I... I just want to be left alone for awhile.”

“Well, to throw your response a second ago back at you, you know where to find me if you need anything,” I respond as, not hanging around to hear if he bothers to reply, I walk out of the bedroom and make my way down the stairs to the laundry. Dumping the bedding in the washing machine, I settle for setting it going at a later time and meander into the kitchen where I find Jane – as one does – sitting on the middle of the bench and eating an apple. Her... out of place... figure on the bench aside though, the kitchen looks exactly as it did the last time I saw it and, regardless of the fact there's probably a good chance that no one may ever be able to find anything, it's clear that she was able to find space in the cupboards for all of the groceries I'd asked her to get. 

“So, who won?” she queries through a mouthful of apple and referring to the brief rant I hit her with about Will's stubborn – 'don't want to', 'I'm too tired', 'I'm fine', 'it's not as though I'm asking you to stick your nose in', 'go away and leave me alone' – refusal to do what I was wanting him to do when she first arrived.

Leaning against the doorframe, I raise my eyebrow and smirk. “Who do you think?”

“A week ago I would have gone for you in a heartbeat,” Jane replies, shrugging, “but after Will's, and I quote, 'pig headed, arrogant stupidity' in refusing to just lie there playing nice in the infirmary, I'm now not so sure.”

“While it may have more to do with him capitulating than me actually being able to claim victory,” I respond with a shrug of my own, “he's in the bath and I'm down here, so I'm putting it down as a win.”

“Mmm... And you're looking thrilled with your victory, too.” Hopping off the bench, Jane takes another bite of apple and walks over to join me in the doorway. “Actually, and I hope you don't mind me mentioning it,” she continues, looking at me closely and frowning slightly, “but you're looking... and I could be wrong, given that I don't think it's an expression I've ever seen you wear before... a little... frazzled.”

“Let's just say my nursing skills probably make Nurse Bishop look like the reincarnation of Florence Nightingale and leave it at that,” I mutter, backing my – 'look, I'm not at all offended by being told I look like I feel' – response up with a wan smile. “Will, for whatever reason, gave up. I do not, however, think it had anything much to do with my less-than-charming bedside manner.”

Giving me a stern, possibly even disapproving look, Jane places her hand on my arm and gives it a light squeeze. “Don't be so hard on yourself, Ethan. You're here as his friend, not to play nursemaid.” 

“So, what you're really saying is that it's a toss up as to what I can fuck up first,” I murmur, placing my hand over hers and giving it a quick pat before – because I know I have to – changing tack slightly and adding, “Don't worry about me. I think I'm just suffering from caffeine deprivation and I'm sure everything will look... positively rosy... once I've had my morning fix.”

“Positively rosy, huh?” Shaking her head, Jane steps back and points at – my mechanical arch nemesis – the coffee machine. “As excuses go, even you've got to admit that's pretty lame given that the answer to your... need for a fix... has been sitting over there all along.”

“Uh...” I shoot a scowl at the machine. “I tried to make myself a cup last night and it tasted so... odd... that I think I may have broke it.”

“You've broken Will's coffee machine?” Laughing, Jane walks over to the bench and carefully inspects the damn thing. “Nope. Looks fine to me,” she states, gesturing me over. “Now, seeing as Will's shown me how to use it, I'll, just because I'm generous like that, share the knowledge with you.”

Surprised that this obviously isn't the first time Jane's been in Will's kitchen, I open my mouth before – 'like it's got anything to do with me anyway' – logic can step in and, because it's the morning for living life dangerously and wanting to choke on my own foot, just have to go and mutter, “You've been here before?”

Swivelling her head around to stare at me, Jane gives me a funny look and laughs again. “Don't look so... put out,” she states, still chuckling. “Yes, I've been here before but, trust me, it was all very innocent!”

“So long as it never impacts on the team, what the pair of you do in your own time has nothing to do with me,” I retort, hiding my stupid, irrational surprise behind a vaguely defensive tone. “In fact, if you think he'd prefer that you were the one to stay here, then...”

“God, Ethan, chill.” Her amusement deserting her at my – admittedly rather petulant – behaviour, she positions herself directly in front of me and, looking me in the eye, drapes her arms over my shoulders. “One, and if you can't read between the lines here I'm going to start questioning your observation skills, I'm not his type, and, two, it really was entirely innocent.”

“You don't have to...”

“Just shut up and listen. Remember that silly weapon's training you and Benji somehow drew the short straw in terms of having to attend, yeah?”

“Of course I remember it.” 

“It was at night, right?”

“Right.”

“Well, a date cancelled on me as Will and I were walking to our cars together and... clearly I vented on him to such an extent that, perhaps solely to shut me up, he invited me around to his for a... consolation... dinner.”

“Oh.” I don't know why her explanation... reassures... me as much as it does, but somehow it just does. I mean, I shouldn't – what's it to me, anyway? – care, and what my friends do in their down time is their business, not mine, but... I don't know. Learning that Jane had been here before just came as a surprise for some – completely unknown, naturally – reason.

“Oh?” Removing her arms from around my shoulders, Jane shrugs and returns her attention to the coffee machine. “Now, because I think you've already got enough on your mind as it is, I'll just finish with... Will made dinner, he's a good cook, by the way, we ate, chatted...” Pausing, she glances at me and winks. “Oddly enough our conversation centred around you for a fair bit of the time, then... he showed me how to use this, we chatted a bit more over coffee, and then, without so much as a kiss on the cheek, I went home. It was a good evening. It was not, however, what you're very busily trying not to imagine.”

“I'm not...”

“Save it, because I'm not buying it.”

“Again, it's got nothing to do with me anyway.”

“No, it doesn't,” Jane agrees with a – 'but it's okay, I'm not really fussed by it' – smile. “But I didn't like how put out, or should that perhaps be... green.... you looked when I let it slip I knew how to use his coffee machine. Anyway! The machine. Do you want to know how to use it or not?”

Only too happy to accept Jane's unspoken offer to let the matter drop, I shift closer to the bench and nod. “Please. If I'm going to be here for a couple of days then I definitely need to be able to make myself a cup of coffee.”

“Okay, then. First you have to...”

Concentrating on Jane's careful instructions managing to not only give me something wondrously mundane to focus on but also, once she's finished and – I'm as confident as I suspect I can ever hope to be about working the machine – handing me a much needed cup of coffee, I'm feeling cautiously okay about things. Not great, granted, but certainly a lot better than when I walked out of Will's bedroom. 

Neither of us wanting to stray down the path of discussing just why it is we're drinking coffee in Will's kitchen or what it took to get us to this particular point, we sit at the table and Jane regales me with the tale of how Benji almost had to hock a kidney to get his money-pit of a Mini out of the garage and I'm actually laughing along with her when we hear it.

Coming from the floor above our head, a heavy thudding sound that goes without saying can only have one cause.

“Shit!” Pushing back my chair, I stand up and wave airily at Jane to remain where she is. “Seeing as I think he only just tolerates me as it is, it might be better if you just stay here,” I mutter over my shoulder as, the hopeful feeling of only a few minutes ago already gone, I run up the stairs and, with my heart already pounding in my chest, hurry into Will's room. Although I know, all things considered, that I should – take a deep breath and compose myself – knock on the bathroom door before just barging in, I tell myself that, assuming consciousness here, of course, he'd probably just tell me to go away anyway and push straight ahead with simply opening the door and marching in.

And, yet again, in another prime example of how just about everything I do where Will's concerned is invariably ill-thought out and... plain wrong, I really, really wish that I hadn't. 

It's not that the pausing-to-knock-and-ignore-the-response routine would have changed anything. Nor, seeing as I'm fairly certain the only thing keeping Will upright is the fact that he's got his fingers all but embedded in the marble top of the vanity unit, do I think he's actually capable of doing anything other than – concentrating on getting both his breathing and trembling under control – what he's already doing and wouldn't have been able to better prepare for my... open-mouthed and flat-footed... rescue anyway.

But...

Oh God... I'm sure he doesn't want me to be seeing this any more than I... want to be seeing it.

Naked. Dripping wet. A large enough puddle of water at his feet to indicate that, yes, he probably fell while getting out of the bath and, through sheer willpower alone, has managed to drag himself up by clinging to the edge of the vanity unit. Water still draining from the bath to add fuel to my belief that he'd finished and was simply trying to get out and dry himself. A clearly ill and weak mess that, although in reality only a few seconds have passed, I feel as though I've been staring at for minutes as the tragic image he paints is forever imprinted on my memory.

Dr Cavendish's statement from however many days it was ago now regarding his injuries having an obviously sadistic element to them rings in my ears, and...

Fuck it!

Knowing it was bad enough, but I could still, with effort, close myself off from it. I could accept it as fact, but that's effectively where it ended. I didn't... I never... Making the mistake of trying to picture his injuries was something I both strenuously and actively avoided. I didn't want to know. What was done was done and, already knowing enough as it was, I was content to just leave it at that.

Now though...

They're in front of me. Not as glossy images spread out on a tabletop or thumbnails on a computer screen, but hideously, graphically... real. Warm, living flesh marred by welts, bruising, cigarette burns and abrasions. I doubt I could place my hand anywhere on his back without touching a wound and realising this makes the coffee I'd just drank sit heavily in my stomach. Just... Why? I understand a beating. I even understand focussed rage and the desire to beat your opponent into a bloody pulp. This, however... Torture under the umbrella term of sexual gratification? I not only don't get it, but it also repulses me. Viewing injuries like this, and sadly I have seen them before, is always bad and leaves me questioning the sick perversions of those who not only inflected them but also... enjoyed... it, but seeing them on someone I actually – care about – know is worse. Far, far worse.

“If you're that... enamoured... with the sight, take a photo,” Will mutters hoarsely as, keeping his head lowered, he stares down at the basin, “it'll last longer.”

“That...” Yeah. Good one, Ethan. With carers like you, who needs enemies? “Uh... That's implying I ever want to see them again,” I reply faintly, “which, well, I have to say that I don't.”

“If you think it looks bad you should try it from where I'm standing.” The effort of adding talking to concentrating on remaining upright clearly take it out of Will, he breathes deeply and, swaying a little on his feet, almost slumps to the floor. His vice-like grip on the vanity unit stops him from dropping though and it's this, the inescapable fact that I am quite literally not doing a fucking thing to help him, that finally gets me moving.

I'm a highly trained IMF agent who will do whatever it takes to achieve my goal, and if I have to apply my determination and skills to the task of getting Will back into bed, then that's what I'm going to do.

Snatching up a towel from the rack, I come to a hopefully safe enough distance behind Will and half-throw, half-drape it over his slumped shoulders. He accepts this without comment and, emboldened by what I'm choosing to call a vague victory of sorts, I grab another towel and, still far enough away not to be able to reach out and touch him, crouch down.

“Do you trust me?” I murmur, clutching the towel and doing my best not to acknowledge that, if the answer comes back in the negative, I don't exactly have a Plan B to turn to.

Placing his faith in one hand being enough to keep him attached to the vanity unit, Will draws the towel tightly around his shoulders. “What?”

“Do you trust me not to hurt you?”

“I...” All the time keeping his gaze fixed on the basin, he gives a small nod. “Yes... I trust you...”

“Okay.” Choking back a huge sigh of relief, I hold the towel in front of me and shift closer to Will. “Now... I'm just going to pat you dry before helping you both into your pyjamas and back into bed. That's all. Uh... If you want me to stop at any point, just say.”

“Just...” Closing his eyes, he nods again. “Just get on with it.”

Not needing telling twice, I apply myself to – ignoring the fact there are cigarette burns on the backs of his knees of all the fucking pointlessly cruel places – gently drying his legs. Some risks being far greater than their rewards, which in this case is only completely dry skin as opposed to still slightly damp, I skip over his butt and groin area and, grabbing them from the edge of the vanity unit, help him into his pyjama pants before standing up and reaching for the towel draped over his shoulders. Will, to his credit, tolerates my ministrations stoically, but I still think it's a toss up between us as to who's the most relieved when I pull his top over his head and step back in order to leave him to get his arms through the sleeves.

“You'll do,” I murmur once he's fully dressed and hesitantly turning around to face the door. A delicate pink blush of either shame or embarrassment stains his cheeks and this almost pierces me to the core as much as the sight of his injuries did. And... It's just not right. None of it is. “Come on, Will,” I add softly as, hopefully translating his apparent trust in me to mean I can get away with doing his, I very gently slide my arm around his waist. “Let's get you back into bed.”

He, as I fully expected him to, stiffens at my touch and won't look at me, but as I know his reaction could have been worse I just take it in my stride and slowly guide him out of the en suite and over to the bed. Pulling back the bedding with my free hand, I help Will down onto the edge of the mattress and, before he has time to climb into bed and pull the covers over his head, quickly tug open the neck of his top and apply the anti-emetic patch to his upper arm. Too exhausted – or perhaps mortified – to comment, let alone protest, he simply waits until I've smoothed his top back into place before swinging his legs up onto the mattress and lying down.

I carefully pull the bedding up over him as, with a sigh, he rests his head on the pillow and closes his eyes. “There... Hopefully you'll feel better when you wake up,” I comment, turning around and beginning to make my way towards the door. “If you want anything I'll just be downstairs with Jane.”

“Actually... Ethan...”

Coming to a stop, I turn back around to face the bed and wait for Will, who has somehow managed to struggle up into a half-sitting position, to continue.

“I... I'll understand and won't fight it if you want to just dump me back at the infirmary or... uh... a nut-house somewhere,” he murmurs, his worried blue-eyed gaze momentarily catching mine and causing us both to look away simultaneously. “You don't need to see me like this and I... I don't want to put you out, so...”

“Do you want to be taken back to the infirmary?” I interrupt. “If you honestly think you'll be better off there, I'll make the arrangements straight away. If, however, you'd rather stay here in your own house and am only making the offer to... save me, or whatever, then... Forget it. I may feel occasionally out of my depth, and you might think my attempts at doing what's best for you leave a lot to be desired, but...” Sighing, I dredge up a faint yet genuine smile and shrug. “Believe me, Will, if you want to stay here and can put up with me hovering around and getting in your way, then... You're not putting me out as this is where I want to be too.”

“If you can put up with me, then I think I can put up with you,” Will whispers as, looking – if my eyes aren't deceiving me – just that little bit relieved, he settles back down. “Just... I know I'm not showing it very well, but I... I am grateful for your assistance and actually feel better knowing that you're here, so... Thank you.”

“Yeah, well, I'll try to remember that when, next time I find you awake, I attempt to get you to eat something,” I mutter, choosing to lighten the moment in preference to making a big deal out of Will's – reassuring – gratitude as I turn around and start to move towards the door. “Just... Get some rest, Will, and, again, if you want anything you know where to find me.”

I...

I'll be here. It mightn't be easy, but I'm not going anywhere and, so long as he'll have me, I'll be by his side every step, however slow and painful they might be, of the way.

~*~*~*~*~*~

The quite unfamiliar sound of footsteps coming down the stairs ensnaring my attention far better than the report I've been reading on the iPad ever could, I place the tablet on the coffee-table and am in the process of getting to my feet when Will walks into the living room. Fresh from a shower, clean-shaven and dressed in jeans and a forest green shirt, he looks far better than he has in days and the half-smile he gives me by way of greeting actually reaches his eyes. He's still pale, tired looking and a little tentative on his feet but, given that he's gotten... up, dressed, and down the stairs... entirely of his own volition and under his own steam, the signs can only be taken as both promising and positive.

Today being Tuesday, a whole week has slipped – at times slowly and at other times effortlessly – by since... what happened in Baltimore, and I honestly don't think it's simply wishful thinking on my part to say that things have been gradually improving on a day to day basis. Saturday morning was bad, very bad even, but since then things have been on both an even keel and constantly on the up. Be it through waving the white flag of defeat or simple, logical acceptance of there being no point in trying to fight off those who wouldn't take no for an answer in terms of wanting to help anyway, Will, since that... unfortunate... scene in his en suite on Saturday, has been steadily moving forward ever since. 

He's stayed in bed, taken his medication, slept longer than even the laziest of cats could manage in a day, stopped feeling nauseas, done as asked without argument, and... got better for it. Yesterday he even, to his obvious amazement, announced that he was actually hungry and looking forward to dinner. Even Dr Cavendish, when he called by last night on his way home to see – that neither of us had had a nervous breakdown yet – how things were going, was quietly impressed at how much Will had managed to improve in three days. Jane and Benji, who have been in and out of Will's house like it's become either their home-away-from-home or favourite drop-in-centre-slash-café, have both commented that he's clearly well on the road to recovery and, while I've been cautiously thinking it myself, now that I've got the irrefutable visual proof in front of me I'm almost certain of it.

While admittedly it's got very little to do with me in the grand scheme of things, I've been doing pretty much okay as well. Thanks to Will showing obvious signs of recovery and Jane and Benji – keeping me entertained – popping in at every given opportunity, I've not only had something far more interesting to spend my time on than simply dwelling on the going nowhere fast thoughts in my head, but I've also been able to focus on the growing brighter by the day light at the end of the tunnel. It hasn't always been easy, and I'm still wary of saying the wrong thing to Will, but it's better, most definitely better.

“Going somewhere?” I drawl, looking Will up and down and, as he takes a seat in the armchair opposite the sofa where I'm sitting, raise my eyebrow.

“Well, while I'd considered simply taking off on a hike, I settled at the last minute for first seeing if I could make it down the stairs without ruining your day by falling yet again on my ass,” he replies with another half-smile. “You know how it is, baby steps and all that.”

“Baby steps or not, I'm glad to see you,” I reply, gesturing at my now empty cup on the coffee-table. “Do you want anything to eat or drink? I can...”

“I'm fine,” Will states, grimacing as his attempts to make himself comfortable in the chair result in a twinge of pain from somewhere working its way through his body. “I finished that bottle of water you'd left on the bedside table before coming down here and am still full from whatever the hell it was Benji dished up for lunch.”

“It was certainly different,” I agree, wrinkling my nose at the memory of the 'Casserole Surprise' Benji... most definitely... surprised us with at lunch. “Not inedible, thankfully, but certainly... different.”

“I take it then that he didn't work from a recipe?”

“Recipe? God no. From what I gathered from his slapdash demeanour in the kitchen, I don't think the word even has a place in his vocabulary. What's more, by the time he'd finished flinging things around I think Jane was regretting not having filmed the experience for future... amusement.”

“And the kitchen survived?”

“After we'd made him clean it up, yes.”

“Actually...” Having finally made himself as comfortable as he's currently capable of being, Will lifts his head and looks directly at me. “Given how... kind... you've all been to me, a kitchen looking like a bomb had hit it would be a small price to pay in terms of how grateful I've been... am... make that, am still, actually... for your company. All three of you, I...” Pausing, he holds both my gaze and my full, undivided attention. “I just want you to know, Ethan, that I owe you at lot. Jane and Benji too, and I'll tell them later, but you're here now and I really do just want you to know how grateful I am. You've never made me feel worse about things and it... it just means a lot to me.”

Both relieved and somewhat touched by Will's heartfelt gratitude, I smile across at him and give a small shrug. “You'd have done the same for any of us,” I murmur. “Anyway, all that matters now is that you feel in yourself that you're on the road to recovery. I'm not planning on going anywhere, unless you specifically want to be on your own, that is, and I think the others may well just be addicted enough to your coffee machine to continue calling in at all hours of the day or night, so... If it works for you, we'll probably just continue taking each day as it comes, yeah?”

“Only if you're okay with it and not wanting to be...”

“I'm not wanting to be anywhere else,” I interrupt, aiming to put this particular doubt to bed right here and now, “and the main reason for that is because where I... want... to be is here with you. I want you to feel better and more like yourself again, and if there's any way I can assist in making that a reality, I'll do whatever I can to make it happen. You're my team mate and friend, and right now your well being really is my number one priority.”

Cocking his head to the side, Will opens his mouth as though he's about to say something but shuts it again without having spoken and settles for simply nodding and changing the subject instead. “Baltimore,” he states, dropping his gaze to his knees. “Obviously the mission had a successful conclusion but... uh... what with one thing or another I've never actually been brought up to date with what exactly happened.”

“In that case, allow me,” I reply, Will's apparent desire to shift topics being one that I'm more than content to follow. “Thanks to your... Oh! And by the way, without you going above and beyond in your search to find the leak I think it goes without saying that the mission would have had an entirely different ending. What you managed... Hell. It was both incredible and seriously appreciated.”

“I only did what I had to do,” Will responds with a dismissive shrug as, his knees no longer holding any interest for him, he turns his attention to picking at his fingernails. “Nankervis' son said something to him along the lines of the money they were paying for the intel being well worth it and... I... I just couldn't let it go. I didn't want to believe that it came from IMF, that I was... sold out... by the very agency I...”

“The very agency that will stand by you no matter what,” I finish matter-of-factly as, not for the first time, I spare a malevolent thought or two towards Richard Franklin and what I'd still quite like to do to him if only I could get my hands on him. “Just... Don't dwell on it, Will. Franklin's brains had moved below his Star Fleet or whatever-the-fuck it is belt buckle and he was too busy trying to get some to stop and think about the consequences of his stupid mouth. It... It wasn't personal.”

Snorting, Will glances up and shoots me a dark look. “Thinking with his cock, huh? Given that he wasn't the only one, oh... the fucking irony.”

“Shit!” And, yes, I walked straight into that one. “Uh... Sorry. I didn't mean it like...”

“I know you didn't. It's just that the irony was so great that I couldn't simply let it pass by.”

“I'm still sor...”

“Nankervis. We were talking about Nankervis.”

“Uh... Right.” I nod, relieved at being once again herded neatly back on track. “You don't have to worry about him any more as he's joined the choir invisible.”

“You killed him?” Will queries, making no attempt to disguise the hopeful tone in his voice.

I shake my head. “Not me, Benji. The stupid bastard had his gun on Jane and Benji took him out.”

Giving me a not entirely pleasant, narrow-eyed look, Will smiles grimly and nods to himself. “Good,” he mutters. “And... What about his son?”

“His son's in custody at HQ and every single piece of paperwork relating to the arms deals are, as we speak, in the hands of the desk-monk...” Stopping myself from falling prey to using Luther's term for the analysts as though I've adopted it as my own just in time, even though, let's face it, it's already too late, I sigh and open my mouth to start again. “All the intel is in the hands of the ana...”

“You could have finished saying desk-monkeys, you know,” Will offers, talking over the top of me and thankfully sounding a lot more amused than he did only a second ago. “Luther tried to wean himself off it while he was around me, but... I think it was just too entrenched and in the end I told him to just go for it, that the term didn't bother me anyway. I mean, I'd rather be called a desk-monkey than some of the... uh... very creative names he threw in Franklin's direction.”

“While I'll try to get out of the habit of using it, it's good to know that it doesn't offend you,” I reply, grinning. “As for Luther, he... does... have a certain way with words, I'll give you that.”

“That he does,” Will agrees with what I take to be a fond smile. “Actually, on the subject of Luther... Thank you, too, for having him look in on me. If he hadn't stayed true to his word and stuck around to help I may not have been able to trace the leak back to Franklin. In fact, while I know he was only there as a favour to you, you could probably say he made all the difference.”

Nodding, I make a mental note to thank Luther a little more thoroughly the next time I see him and, pleased that my old friend was able to help when I couldn't, beam across the coffee-table at Will. “Penchant for abusing the English language aside, Luther's a good person to have around and I'm glad he was able to play a small part in assisting you to track the leak.”

“Small part?” Will echoes, scowling down at his fingers as his constant picking has caused a small trickle of blood to run down his thumb. “If he hadn't rescued me from the... den of the desk-monkeys, and, actually, given how I feel about those bastards now I actually think the term is too kind for them, I'd probably still be there. It... Oh God... It was like I was both invisible and contagious at the same time. You... You should have just seen them avoiding me. I'd been working with them only six months earlier, yet... they couldn't even look at me. They... They made me feel...”

“You're right, desk-monkey is too kind a term for them,” I mutter sourly, cutting Will off because, having heard the tale already from Luther, I don't need to hear it again from him. “Just... Don't let them get to you. They weren't your friends even when you worked with them and they're not worth being bothered by now. They're petty-minded, intelligence obsessed fools with no empathy or people-skills. You never belonged with them and you're better off without them. Uh...”

Realising what I've just said and how it can possibly be read, I clap my hand over my mouth and shoot Will an apologetic look. “Sorry. You were, of course, an excellent analyst and if I hadn't dragged you back in to the field none of this would have...”

“You didn't drag me, I came willingly,” Will states, once again talking over the top of me and taking effortless charge of the moment. “Now, back to the subject at hand. Nankervis is dead, his lowlife son is in custody, the desk-monkeys that quite frankly I currently hope rot in hell have all the intel, and... That leads us to... All of the others, what happened to them?”

“The others?” I repeat weakly, my head too full of – the truth – my near miss to know automatically who Will's referring to. “Nankervis and his son were the only locals involved and...”

“Not... those involved in the mission,” Will whispers, “the... ones... from the...”

“Oh!” The penny clunking heavily into place, I sigh and, because trying to deflect Will would only delay the inevitable, simply launch straight into sharing what I know with him. “While Nankervis certainly owned the... container, he wasn't actually in charge of either its contents or... uh... what went on it. He was, however, a member of the... exclusive, port-based sex club and took part in the... activities... whenever he had the time. The others were just... from various companies at the port and, much to Jane's satisfaction, it was ran by the two managers from Sanderson Logistics, the firm she, and I'm sure you're already aware of this, was very unhappily undercover in. Needless to say, the club is defunct, the contents of the container destroyed, and all the men will soon enough be behind bars for one trumped up charge or another. It might be tax evasion, unpaid traffic fines, loitering near a playground and looking like a paedophile or something as unoriginal as being found with drugs on them, but, and you have my word on this, their days as free men are numbered.”

I'd have preferred rounding them up and flaying the skin off their backs before feeding them to a school of starving sharks myself, but... First fixing them up before locking them up is better than nothing and I'll take what I can get. Besides, momentarily gratifying though it may be, having their blood stain my hands wouldn't either solve or undo anything anyway. And I suspect Will, once the war of emotions has finished flickering across his face, will most likely come to the same conclusion.

“It'll do,” Will mutters at last. “And... Actually, I like it. They'll get stitched up and made to pay without even really knowing why.”

“Well, you were right the first time,” I reply, “it'll do. But... It's over. Baltimore, it's all over.”

And, well I never, just like that I've done it again. Put my foot in it and carelessly honed in on where I could do the most damage. Of course it isn't over for Will. Just because the side effects are wearing off and he's made it downstairs on his own doesn't mean what he's going through is even close to over. The injuries will heal, but the memories? They'll never leave him.

“I... Fuck! I'm sorry. I didn't mean to sound so blasé. Just because the mission is over doesn't mean...” Trailing off mid-babble, I run my fingers messily through my hair and tilt my head back to rest it on the sofa. “I'm sorry, Will. I feel as though I keep saying the wrong thing and want you to know that it's accidental, that I don't mean what I'm saying, not... not in the way you probably think I do anyway.”

“You're too hard on yourself,” Will murmurs as, to my considerable shock given that I hadn't even been aware he'd gotten out of the armchair, he sinks down onto the sofa next to me. “While it may not have been exactly in these words,” he continues, pressing up against my side and, to my even greater surprise, curling his arm around mine, “what I said earlier about being lost without you? I meant every word of it. This is all new to you, but, guess what, it's all new to me too and I don't know what I'm doing or what I should do any more than you do. Yet... You're here, and you're putting up with me, and... for every... wrong... thing you think you say you've already done way more than enough to make up for it. So...”

Turning his head to fix his tired – 'go on, argue with me, I dare you' – gaze on mine, Will curls his legs up onto the sofa and, taking matters well and truly into his own hands, rests his head on my shoulder. “So... Stay where you are, stop second guessing yourself or worrying, and... for no other reason than I suspect it will prove to you that I do actually mean everything I've been saying, let me take a nap on you.”

~*~*~*~*~*~

I know what I should be doing. 

There's arrangements to be made. Lots of arrangements. Very specific, can't-leave-anything-to-chance arrangements, at that. I need... a private jet, vehicles on the ground in Barcelona, a suite in a five-star hotel, and, expensive, top of the range... everything. Clothing, luggage, watch, sunglasses – the lot. I need to – walk the walk and talk the talk – look the part. I also have to refresh myself with both my – in this instance – alter-ego of Jackson Taylor and the known operational structure of Das Auktionshaus.

Then there's... the time-frame, which, seeing as I have to be in Barcelona by tomorrow morning at the latest, isn't allowing for a lot of wriggle room. I can do it. Of course I can. What's more I've done it on the fly more times than I care to count and have even made these sorts of arrangements while concussed in a hospital bed before. So... The specifics I can do with ease. Most of it can be done online anyway. All I have to do is log into my IMF account and with a few clicks of the mouse I could have a jet filled with Louis Vuitton luggage waiting for me on a runway in D.C. and a Bugatti Veyron idling outside a private airfield in Barcelona for when I get there. It's not, especially as there's a dedicated team of specialists just lurking around HQ waiting for my requests to filter in before flying into action and making them happen, an onerous task.

Only...

I'm dragging my heels because I don't particularly want to go. It's not that I won't, as, and despite my procrastinating I know this already, I will. I have to. Das Auktionshaus is a constant, drop-everything-and-go-now priority for IMF and it's taken many years of hard work on the behalf of my alias Jackson Taylor to be trusted enough by them to be invited to their random, infrequent auctions. To not go would be to throw away near on a decade's worth of industrious, focussed effort. Worse, it would waste a golden opportunity to achieve...

Well, where Das Auktionshaus is concerned what can be achieved really does honestly fall under the banner of 'the sky's the limit'. An underground auction house that deals exclusively in black market, highly illegal and usually downright morally wrong as well items, there isn't anything they won't try to sell to the highest bidder. Weapons, from handguns to missiles to actual battle ready fighter jets or tanks, if someone who shouldn't have it wants it, Das Auktionshaus will happily sell it to them so long as they're able to raise the cash. Conflict diamonds, state secrets, blackmail material, drugs, chemical agents, sex slaves, children... You name it and, if you're sick enough to want it, they can get it. Once they even sold off a people smuggling ring as a going concern. The gang who had been running it having run into difficulties, they offered it up for auction and another gang of scumbags dutifully snapped it up and the ring remained operational.

We have, and have done so for years, more than enough on Das Auktionshaus to shut them down once and for all, but that's never been our goal. They're worth more, far more, intel wise to us if, albeit carefully monitored, they're allowed to remain in business. By attending the auction I'll A) find out what they're currently offering as the only way to know is to be there in person and, B) hopefully be able to track both the source and the buyer of the item. If, for example, this is a weapons' auction, I'll be able to not only ascertain where the goods originally came from, but I'll also be able to mark the buyer as someone of interest. As never-ending sources of intelligence go, Das Auktionshaus is simply in a league of its own and unbeknownst to them, of course, we've corrected an untold number of their wrongs courtesy of the intel picked up at their auctions. 

Normally I enjoy the curiosity, excitement and sense of wonderment – 'where they'd get that from?', along with, 'I never expected to see... you... buying something like... that' – that comes part and parcel with receiving an auction invite from Das Auktionshaus. They're luxurious, relatively simple missions with high stakes. I just wish, however, that in this instance they'd chosen their timing a little better as, just call me self-absorbed, it's simply not ideal from where I'm sitting.

I don't, and I can't deny it or just brush it off, want to leave Will. He's improving every day, and I know without even having to hear it from him that he'd think I was crazy for so much as contemplating putting him before any mission, let alone a Das Auktionshaus auction, but... I'm just struggling to make my peace with it, that's all. Jackson Taylor's established cover coming with staff, a personal assistant and an accountant at the very least, I can't go to Barcelona on my own and need to take a team with me. I can make do with two agents tagging along, and it goes without saying that Jane and Benji would be my instinctive, automatic choice, but... If I take them, Will would be left here on his own and I just can't bring myself to do it to him. Yes, he's a lot better, but he's still only been out of the infirmary for a week and I seriously think a fair bit of his recovery has been down to constantly being surrounded by friends. If we were all to up and leave him though, regardless of how much logic he'd be able to apply to the reason for it, it would still manage to do far more harm than good. I'd possibly be able to cope better if Luther was in D.C. and could – resume his baby sitting duties – drop in every now and again, but his team have just started a mission in Tokyo and no-one knows when they're likely to be back. 

While the auction itself is scheduled for either Monday or Tuesday – they keep their invites vague and only inform those who have actually made it to the listed city of the address for the auction on the day – there's no saying how long the mission will run for as it all depends on what's up for auction and the work involved with identifying both the items and the buyers. If it's, say, a stealth bomber, then it'll be quite quick. One item easily traceable, and one buyer, also easily traceable. Lots of weapons from many different sources though, that could take weeks and the co-ordinating of other teams as there'd be no way we could track them all ourselves. IMF would prefer the latter, and normally I'd be on the same page as them, but this time I'd vote for one big-ticket item without hesitation as, the sooner I'd be able to get back to Washington, the better.

Sighing, I retrieve my laptop from the coffee-table and, because I know I have to, that this shit isn't just going to arrange itself, I open up the screen and log in to the blandly named 'Supplies' section of the IMF website. Admittedly it's only delaying the inevitable, but the whole... choosing my team... thing can wait until I've got all the inanimate objects arranged and out of the way. With any luck, not that I'm exactly holding my breath, by then I'll have been hit with a bolt of inspiration and will know, with complete faith and confidence, what exactly it is I'm doing. Not in the mood to really apply myself to the task, I've just booked out the first available Learjet – it's an expensive private plane that comes complete with a pilot, therefore it'll do – when the front door opens and Jane materialises in the living room.

“I see that piece of crap, Union Jack emblazoned Mini is parked out the front,” she announces by, I suspect, way of greeting, “yet it's... strangely... quiet in here and I'm kind of instantly left wondering just what it is you might have done with Benji...”

Pleased to see Jane and welcoming the diversion she offers with open arms, I dump the laptop back onto the coffee-table and roll my eyes. “He and Will, if you can believe it, are out hunting through all the DVD stores in D.C. in search of some movie-or-other that Benji had only, as in thanks to receiving an email within minutes of arriving here, just discovered has been re-released. Or...” Shrugging, I flash a – 'don't ask me because, no, I don't get it either' – smile at Jane. “Something like that, anyway. The email came through, he read it, got all excited and babbled like, well, only Benji can babble and, having to have it, like, now, was about to head straight off when Will offered to go with him.”

“He... did?” Laughing, Jane shakes her head and, dropping her bag by the coffee-table, takes a seat in an armchair. “Don't tell me being cooped up in here finally got too much for him and he's... lost the plot?”

“I don't think you're far off it, actually,” I reply. “Wednesday's trip to the infirmary to check in with Dr Cavendish not having been that exciting, I think he just decided to go with Benji for both something to do and as an excuse to get out of the house. Not being stupid though and knowing all of the Mini's issues, he insisted that they go in his BMW which, obviously, is why the piece of crap is taking up space out the front.”

“A tour of DVD stores looking for God alone knows what,” Jane murmurs with another laugh. “I don't know if I'd be able to handle the adrenaline rush. What about you though? Why are you still sitting here when such a... treat... was on offer?”

“I wanted to go for a run,” I respond, shrugging. “As you can see however from my clothes, I didn't get to go because I...” Looking over at Jane, I meet her eyes and, simply because it's what I feel like doing, scowl. “I was about to go and get changed when I made the mistake of checking my email and... I've got a mission.”

“You've... got a mission?” she queries with more than a touch of coolness in her voice. “What do you mean... you? Last I heard solo missions weren't part of the structure anymore.”

“I've got a mission because the invite is to one of my aliases and I have to be the one to attend.”

“On your own?”

“I'll need a team.”

“You... have... a team.”

“I have two members of a team, along with another member who I can't help but feel would benefit from having the... other two... stay here with him...”

“Oh.” Her slightly defensive, slightly disappointed expression softening to one of understanding, Jane sighs heavily and nods. “You're worried about Will.”

“I'm worried about deserting Will when he needs people around him, yes,” I confirm as, standing up, I begin to pace around the living room. “He won't agree, and will just tell me to go and take you and Benji with me, but...”

“You don't want to.”

“No. I don't want to. It just doesn't seem right. Not at the moment anyway, not when I think we need to stick together.”

“Okay then,” Jane replies calmly as she watches me pace, “let's take a step back... Am I allowed to know what the mission is?”

“Das Auktionshaus are having one of their auctions in Barcelona early next week,” I state, coming to a stop in front of Jane so I can watch her reaction to this no doubt unexpected titbit of information. 

As expected, her eyes instantly light up with interest and she gives a low, impressed whistle. “Das Auktionshaus, huh?”

“Uh-huh. It's their first auction in over twelve months.”

“Could be special, then.”

“Oh, it'll be special.”

“No idea what will be up for sale though?”

“None whatsoever.”

“No expense spared though?”

“Again... None whatsoever.”

“So... This time tomorrow you could be driving around Barcelona in a McLaren?”

“I was leaning towards a Veyron myself, but... Yes. This time tomorrow I need to be making my embarrassingly rich presence known in Barcelona.”

“Damn!” Frowning, Jane looks up at me and murmurs, “I want in. I've read reports on Das Auktionshaus and, seriously, I'd love, as I'm sure Benji would too, to be involved, even if it was only on the periphery, in one of their auctions. I... Like you though, I don't particularly just want to up and leave Will, so... Just hear me out, yeah?” Getting to her feet, she walks over to me and lightly places her hand on my upper arm. “What about asking him if he'd like to join us? I'd say boredom was already beginning to settle in given that he voluntarily joined Benji on his DVD hunt, the side effects have all but left him in peace, he's looking better every day, and... I could be wrong, but... I suspect he'd probably jump at the opportunity to be able to both apply his mind to something work related and, well... do... something.”

“I...” While I have to admit I hadn't thought of checking with Will to see if he felt up to coming to Barcelona, I can't say with any automatic conviction that it's a good idea and don't quite know what to say. IMF policy is that no agent is to go out on a mission unless fully fit and capable of firing on all cylinders. Which, obviously, Will isn't. On the other hand though, far from fully fit and barely holding it together agents are capable of successfully completing missions they'd started while in a far better state so, to write him off simply because he's not currently on top of his game wouldn't necessarily be entirely right. If he wanted to come – and I'd be lying through my teeth if I didn't own up to this being the ideal answer to everything – then... Why couldn't he? He wouldn't even really have to do anything and could just have a holiday of sorts. We could all keep an eye on him like we have been, and he wouldn't be stuck here in D.C. on his own. It would be a win-win situation.

“Assuming that is, of course, he wanted to,” Jane adds, squeezing my arm as she tries not to look too smug at having managed to capture my attention hook, line and sinker, “he could even practice his tech-skills which, in turn, could offer Benji more field experience. I'm not saying that's a deal maker or breaker, but it's something that could be taken into consideration. But...” Trailing off, she releases her hold on my arm and smiles hopefully. “It's solely Will's decision. If, and only if, he believes he's up to this and, perhaps even more importantly, wants to do it, we'll go off to Barcelona as a team. If, however, he declines or... and I'll leave making this judgement call up to you... seems only to agree because he thinks it's expected of him, I'll drive you to the airport myself before coming straight back here. So... What do you say? Will you at least ask him?”

Returning Jane's smile with a far more cautious one of my own, I nod. “I'll ask him. As you said though, it's Will's decision and we, all of us, have to respect it.”

Let's face it, we're a team that works incredibly well together, the mission, such as it is, is one I know inside out and comes as close to having no threat of danger attached to it as anything IMF is involved in is ever likely to get, so, really, what could possibly go wrong?

~*~*~*~*~*~


	4. Chapter 4

~*~*~*~*~*~

“I... I can't. Ethan, I...” Giving me his best – and it's good, it really is – kicked puppy-dog look, Benji bites down on his bottom lip and shakes his head. “I just can't. I'm sorry, I am, really, but I can't do it.”

He looks, not to put a too fine a point on it or anything, as though he's in danger of having a panic attack. Instead of feeling either sorry for him or as though I should possibly back down and leave him alone for a while to get his head around it better, all I want to do is jump out of my seat and shake him. It's not a nice feeling, and I wish it wasn't threatening to swallow me whole, but, Goddamn it, if he doesn't get with the fucking program I'm just going to snap. I understand, especially seeing as I've had to play this... unpalatable... role before, with far better insight than he's probably giving me credit for that what I'm requesting of him isn't exactly a walk in the park, but given that there's no other option, he just has to suck it up and act out the role handed to him. He won't like it. But, guess what? I don't much like it either. I didn't like it first time round and, already knowing what we'll be getting ourselves in for, I like it even less this time.

“It's okay, Benji. I'll do it.”

Turning a deaf – over my dead body – ear to Will's quietly adamant statement even as my stomach clenches at the mere thought of it, I continue glaring at Benji and point my finger at him accusingly. “You're a field agent now, Benji,” I declare snidely, “and, here's a news flash for you, this is the sort of shit field agents have to do in the field.”

“I... I just can't,” he repeats miserably, dropping his gaze to the floor. “He... Thibault. He won't buy it anyway. I... I'm not sexy enough.”

“All Thibault has to believe is that... I... find you sexy enough,” I retort, keeping my gaze locked on Benji because I don't want to catch sight of Will out of the corner of me eye. “Other than that, I don't give a fuck what he thinks.”

Benji shakes his head again and, apparently feeling no more capable of looking at Will than I do, shoots me a beseeching look. “I understand what you're asking of me and... uh... why it's important but, I'm telling you, Ethan, I just can't do it. I... I wouldn't feel comfortable in the role and I think, no, I... know... it would shine through and make Thibault suspicious. I... I'm not Declan and it just wouldn't come naturally to me. ”

“Fine!” I snap, gesturing angrily at Benji and, although he's on the other side of the motel room to me, causing him to take a step backwards in self-preservation. “What do you want me to do, huh? Go and grab some guy off the street? It... Look, Benji, it has to be you. I'll be by your side the entire time and I'll make sure...”

“I said,” Will interrupts with a sight, “I'll do it. I already look the part anyway.”

Rubbing my hands over my face, I ignore Will for the second time and, getting to my feet, walk over to the decanter of scotch on the sideboard. Pouring myself a generous amount of the amber liquid into a glass, I down half of it in a much needed gulp and only just resist the urge to hurl the glass into the large, ornate mirror hanging on the wall by Benji's head. I'm behaving like a prick, I know that, but it's either lapse fully in to arrogant, team leader mode and focus solely on the mission, or... run the risk of losing it completely.

Less than than forty-eight hours ago, back in Will's living room in D.C. I silently posed a question to myself that I now know the answer to.

What could possibly go wrong?

The answer, I'm sad to say, is... A lot.

A huge, fucking lot.

And, while I may not have known it at the time, it all started in the same living room as well when, after careful consideration, Will agreed to join the mission in whatever capacity I felt he'd be able to assist in. He didn't jump at the offer simply to get out of the house, or because he felt it was expected of him, and actually – weighed up the pros and cons – thought about it for a good thirty minutes before giving his reply in the affirmative. Wanting my team with me in Barcelona as much as I wanted to be able to do what I could to continue watching over Will, I welcomed his acceptance with open arms, pushed any and all second thoughts to the back of my head, and far more happily than I had been earlier in the day, promptly set about locking in all the required arrangements. 

Again, what could possibly go wrong? I had my team and I had what I wanted.

Now, however... Fuck. I wish I'd never even asked him in the first place, and I certainly wish he'd reached the conclusion of the cons outnumbering the pros and knocked me back.

Will, he shouldn't – end of story – be here. It might have been okay yesterday, and I do actually believe he'd been looking forward, even if it was only going to be behind the keyboard of Benji's laptop, to getting back in the swing of things, but... Now that things have taken such an unexpected turn and Thibault has thrown such a huge fucking spanner into the mix...

He just shouldn't be here.

I... wish... he wasn't here.

He doesn't need to be involved in this... ever-increasing mess, and he most definitely shouldn't be feeling as though he needs to step up and offer to play a role that I can only imagine the mere though of which is making his skin crawl.

It's close to making my skin crawl as it is and my designated, set in stone role is hardly any different to the one I always play whenever I take on an alias or pull on a mask.

Pierre Thibault, though... He's, and, no, this is not meant in a good way, a fascinating example... of, well, what exactly, I don't know. I don't even think, if faced with a blank Word document and twelve hours in which to adequately put the man into eloquently written paragraphs, I could so much as do his... oddness... justice, let alone coherently explain him. He's... Unique. Peculiar. Garrulous to the point of, all perfectly innocently, mind you, telling you everything you're thinking you want to know and then some. Creepy. Definitely creepy. Lonely. A kept man with delusions of grandeur. Confused. Possibly slightly disturbed. Essentially harmless. Perverted. Not very intelligent. Annoying. Very annoying. Arrogant. Clueless.

A pain in my neck that has to be pandered to because of both who he belongs to and what, solely by virtue of this, he knows.

While I'm certainly no expert, as relationships go, Thibault's and Stephen Palmer's is... extraordinarily special to say the least. Palmer is a mover and a shaker in every sense of the word. If it's illegal and lucrative then there's a good chance he'll be either involved in it, wanting to take it over, dismissed it as not really being worth his interest, or offering it for sale to the highest bidder himself. Liking the profit to be made from simply playing the role of middleman, he's one of Das Auktionshaus' biggest clients and frequently sells on his purchases for a tidy sum to those who... prefer to keep a far quieter presence. Unlike Thibault though, Palmer is exceptionally careful in regards to who he speaks to and he's always proven difficult to gather intel on. He's also somewhat, both figuratively and, given that he's well over six foot and solid to the point of bordering on fat, literally, larger-than-life. At only fifty-five years of age, he's onto his sixth – anorexic, perfectly plastic and vacant – trophy wife, and I give the current one another three years before he moves on to a newer model. He moves around constantly, has estates in all the major continents, changes his second in command with even more frequency than he does his wives, shows no loyalty to either anyone or anything, yet...

Gives every indication of truly loving the creepy Thibault. Just... Go figure. It's one of life's little mysteries right up there with boy bands and why only ever one sock goes missing in the washing.

Thibault, unlike his – owner and operator – sugar-daddy, is anything but larger-than-life. His exact age unknown, I put him in his early forties and although he tries hard to hide it, he looks it. Not overly tall and on the scrawny side of slim, he has baby-fine very light, almost white blond hair, pale blue eyes, thin lips, a prominent nose and, to be perfectly honest he always strikes me as having the look of a horror movie scarecrow brought to life. His voice is high-pitched, his gestures effeminate, and he dresses – badly, as in neither appropriate for his age nor physical appearance – like a male model two decades his junior. The story goes though that twenty-five years ago, when waiting on Palmer's table in a Paris restaurant, it was love at first sight. Their eyes met over a bottle of red and a bread stick and they've been together ever since. Again, go figure. A South African, underground kingpin of, even back then, considerable note, and a weedy, going nowhere, French waiter. It's like the most creative and... unbelievable... love story every told.

It's true though. All of it. Thibault has been the only constant thing in Palmer's life since that night in Paris. Wives may come and go, but Thibault's lofty status in his life never changes. I can't for the life of me see how, but it really just has to be love. Palmer is rich and powerful and could have anyone he wanted. Hell, he could have his own fleet of... playthings... following him around and catering to his every sexual whim, yet he sticks with – the perfectly unappealing – Thibault. He also indulges him with such, blind adoring affection that the Frenchman most likely only has to... think... he wants it for it to become an instant reality. Clothing. Cars. Jewellery.

His very own personal... human... pet.

Part of me almost gets it, while the other part is left scratching my head in complete and utter confusion. Palmer dominates Thibault. It's his personality and it's an understanding their relationship is both based on and survives on. Thibault, I suspect, doesn't want to think for himself. He has everything he wants and more, loves Palmer in his own, warped way, and simply... submits... because that's what he has always done and probably even enjoys. There may well be a S&M component to their relationship but if there is I don't need to know about it.

Wanting, apparently, to prove to anyone who gives a flying fuck – if indeed there even is anyone, which I doubt there is – that's he's not a complete walk over and is worthy of his spot on the big boy's table, Thibault fancies himself as a bit of a... Master. Or, to put it another, probably far more factual way, the pet is... allowed... to have his own pet on which to lavish attention on and cart around like some of perverse status symbol. Some poor sucker, usually from Palmer's security pool, gets handed to him – literally – on a leash, and off he goes on a power-trip. Do this, do that, strip, suck this, come here and be my footstool, wear this, obey my every – usually more voyeuristic and... vanilla... than truly kinky – order. There's a sexual element to it, of course there is, but it's far more... token-gesture... than it is a true S&M arrangement. Thibault views it that way, as a formal Master-Slave relationship, while the... slave... simply lies back and daydreams about how he's going to be able to spend all the extra cash Palmer's secretly paying him to keep his beloved entertained. He's too dim-witted and emotionally delicate to be in to the scene proper, and is no more a dominating, master-like presence than I'm Iron Man, but he tries. Not very well, granted, but he gives it his – very limited – all and the best way to sweet-talk him into believing you're his friend is to just play along and pander to his delusions.

If he thinks you're like-minded, and you dutifully coo over his pet-of-the-week while he gets to ogle yours, the poor bastard is putty in your hands and, too overjoyed by having someone other than Palmer to actually talk to, he'll pretty much eagerly tell you everything you want to know. So long as you've both got pets who know to give every impression of being dominated by your... strong, manly presence, he, regardless of it flying in the face of his 'I'm a Master, really, I am' routine, reverts to gossiping like a schoolgirl. When I met him two years ago I was able to get about a year's worth of intel on Palmer out of him in less than hour. He's so closeted in Palmer's world and devoid of friends that I don't even think the sight of my IMF badge and a recording device on the coffee-table in front of him would have raised any alarm bells in his head and he would have just kept on blithering away like it was almost a relief to be able to actually talk to someone new.

I don't like Thibault, and God knows I could easily live without having to jump through these particular hoops in order to get him to talk, but at the same time I just feel a little bit sorry for him. He knows no other life than the one Palmer dictates for him, his posturing in the S&M scene is so tragically transparent that he'd be a laughing stock if not for the fear his lover installs in everyone with half a brain, and he's just... clueless. If I could live out the rest of my live without ever having to think of, let alone actually meet him again, I'd be all the more happier for it.

Only...

Here he is, of course, in Barcelona. And, Palmer's tentacles spreading as far as to make even Das Auktionshaus fall over themselves backwards to cater to his demands, he already knows that I'm in town as well and wants to meet up for a drink in my motel room later this afternoon. It has to be my room, which needless to say works better for me anyway, because it'll get him away from Palmer for a while and, because he thinks I actually buy his bullshit act, he can practice his acting skills all he likes while I, in turn, practice mine in ensuring he believes I'm dutifully lapping it up. That, and it's private. Which means he can parade his current pet in front of me, and I can... proudly display mine to him before, just as we did last time we met, comparing their... oral... skills. Only verbally, thankfully, yet to this day I can remember that dreadful moment when I thought he was going to suggest we try each other's out right then and there, and, simply put, don't ever want to experience one like it again.

Actually, although I have no choice in the matter and will be meeting him in four hours time regardless of my opinion on the subject, if I could refuse, I would. Thibault makes me uncomfortable, having to pretend to be interested in dominating another person makes me even more uncomfortable, and...

None of it matters.

I have to do it. And I have to have pet.

It wasn't... so... bad last time because Declan, for reasons I made sure he kept to himself, was more than up for taking on the pet-role. He even volunteered to strut around in a g-string and actually looked disappointed when – not necessarily wanting to see it myself – I eventually convinced him that leather shorts would be... more... than fine. Then, when one of the longest hours in my life was finally over, he disappeared into the bathroom and stayed in there for an inordinately long period of time. I think, and, again, I didn't ask because I didn't want to know, he enjoyed the experience of being on display, devoid of control, and wanted.

If Declan was here now, knowing both that it didn't bother him and that he'd already been through it before, I'd be... okay. Still not rapt with having, despite the long term benefit of it, Thibault land in my lap, but... generally okay. Been there, done that, know what we're doing, so let's just get on and do it.

Declan, however, isn't here and the two options I have before me aren't really viable options at all. Benji's right in that he doesn't particularly look the part and that his nerves stand every chance of getting in the way and making him look not quite believable. Will though... Just, no. He'd look the part, but making him go there isn't something I could ever do. A month ago, before Baltimore, then, fine, he'd be up without question. I wouldn't even have hesitated in handing the role to him and would probably even have found myself – solely for aesthetic reasons, of course – looking slightly forward to it. Now though? To force him to parade around half naked and obey my every order would be like re-opening a still raw wound and I can't in all good conscience do it.

“You can pretend I'm invisible all you like,” Will mutters tetchily as, the sound of his voice breaking through my reverie and dragging me back to reality, he gets up from the sofa and strides over to me, “but I'm here, I'm not going anywhere, and I'm telling you that I've got this. You seem to have forgotten that I only agreed to come to Barcelona if I was able to offer something to the mission and... This. This is my part to play.”

“What? No!” Benji exclaims as, obviously having done as good a job of blocking Will out as I'd been trying to do, he appears to have heard him speak for the first time and can't hide his horror at what he's offering to put himself through. “Will, no! It's okay,” he continues, hurrying over to where we're standing, glaring at each other by the sideboard. “Ethan's right. I just have to suck it up, find my... uh... inner sexiness and... uh... take one for the team. You... You don't... You can't...”

“I can, and I'm going to,” Will interrupts, shifting his gaze to Benji and dredging up a faint smile. “It's okay, Benji. If I'm going to be part of the team I have to be able to play my part. I don't want to be here simply because you all pity me or feel I need a baby-sitter. Don't get me wrong, I appreciate it, I really do, and for what it's worth I'd still rather be here than on my own in D.C., but... I've got to feel useful, and... I've got this. As I said before, I already look the part, so...”

“You don't have to do this,” I state, folding my arms across my chest and scowling at Will as he straightens his shoulders and scowls right back at me. “Benji can...”

“You're wrong. I do have to do this.”

“You don't.”

“I do,” Will repeats firmly. “I don't want to and... because of that, I have to. I have to be able to do this so that I... know that I can, that I can still do whatever is required of me.”

“I...” Damn. I hadn't thought about it that way before and, while I still don't like it, I can't deny the logic behind where he's coming from. Force yourself to do something you don't want to do now, or fear forever losing both the courage and confidence to ever do it again. I don't just not like it, I hate it, but I also understand it and know that I can't stand in his way. “It's your choice, Will, and yours alone,” I murmur as, shrugging, I drop my arms to my sides in a display of resigned acceptance. “I just want you to know though that I'd never ask you to do this...”

“I know.” Trailing his hand lightly down my arm, Will smiles grimly and glances at his watch. “I jumped before and I'm going to... jump... now,” he adds, taking a step back and tapping Benji on the shoulder. “Okay, now that that's sorted, Benji, go find the keys to the Maserati while I go and get changed into something, well, less professional looking.”

“We're going somewhere?” Benji queries, sharing a blank look with me.

“Unless someone here has a bag full of leather bits and pieces that they've been keeping to themselves,” Will replies, pausing in the doorway to his bedroom to look back over his shoulder at Benji, “we need to go shopping for something for me to wear.”

Paling slightly, Benji nods and, under his breath, mutters, “Marvellous. We're going to a sex shop. This won't be awkward at all.”

Sighing, I finish my scotch, pour myself a small refill and return to the sofa. “Just... Get the keys, Benji,” I state, flopping down on the sofa and resting my feet on the edge of the coffee-table. “Thibault's going to be here in a couple of hours and we need to be ready.”

“I...” Finding the keys half hidden under an iPad on the arm of an armchair, Benji stashes them in his pocket before crouching alongside of me and shrugging. “I'll do what I can to try to talk him out of it,” he murmurs, frowning. “I'll even, if that's what it takes, tell him that I've changed my mind and want to be able to prove to myself that I'm capable of doing it.”

“You can try,” I reply, toasting Benji with my glass, “but don't take it badly when you don't get anywhere. I don't like it anymore than you do, but he's made his mind up and I don't think there's anything any of us will be able to do to change it.”

“He shouldn't...”

“No. He shouldn't. But he's going to.”

“I...”

“Don't let it get to you, Benji. It's not your fault. Will's doing what he feels he has to and... we may as well just respect it.”

“Well said,” Will announces as, having changed from his suit to a pair of jeans and a plain black, long sleeved t-shirt, he walks out of the bedroom and makes his way over to the door. “Come on, Benji. We don't have much time to spare and still have to find the... uh... sort of shop we need.”

“In that case, let's get out of here,” Benji replies, grabbing his jacket from the coffee-table and walking over to join Will. “We'll, I would hope, be back shortly.”

“Just get the basics,” I mutter, taking a sip of scotch and watching Jane as, shifting away from the window, where she's been standing silently ever since I first tried to convince Benji he'd be up for the role of playing my pet, she comes over and joins me on the sofa.

“I'm sorry,” she whispers, grabbing the glass from my hand and downing the last of the scotch in it. “If I hadn't been so desperate to get a piece of Das Auktionshaus action I never would have come up with the great idea of getting Will to come along and...”

“It's not your fault,” I murmur, placing my hand lightly on her thigh as I gaze at absolutely nothing in particular in front of me. “I didn't have to agree with you and I didn't have to ask him.”

But I did.

Which puts whatever it is that's coming on my head and mine alone.

~*~*~*~*~*~

My usual default position when it comes to embarking on anything mission-related is one of carefully maintained, adrenaline-tinged anticipatory excitement. It doesn't matter if it's having to jump from a bridge onto a speeding train or simply strolling into a meet, as the anticipation builds in the pit of my stomach and I just can't wait to get to get on with it.

Right now, however, the feeling in the pit of my stomach is more sickly than anything else, and my overriding emotion is one of dread. It started when Will insisted on being the one to meet Thibault with me, grew considerably larger when, having returned from their shopping trip to a local sex shop, Benji took a gulp of scotch straight from the decanter before informing me that a bondage movie being shown on the store's large-screen television had made Will go a little... funny (“As in... peculiar-funny, not amused-funny”), and has now reached positively epic proportions as I wait for the show to finally start.

Thibault's a creep. Pretending to get off on having a sex-slave makes me uncomfortable. Not only do I have to feign interest in domination but I also have to resist the urge to just slap Thibault for being such an annoying idiot.

Oh. And then there's Will.

Will, who hasn't said a word to me since returning from the shopping expedition, and who hasn't come out of the bedroom since disappearing in there over forty minutes ago.

It's like a cracked record playing over and over again in my head, and I know there's not a damn thing I can do about it short of knocking him out and just stashing him in a cupboard somewhere, but he shouldn't be doing this. His reasons might be sound, and I'd even respect them if the events in Baltimore had happened more than two weeks ago, but as things currently stand it's just wrong. He'll see it through, of that I'm confident, but at what cost? I can both control Thibault and guarantee that he'll come to no physical harm, but I'm just afraid it won't be enough, that the damage will be done regardless.

Noting that the elevator Thibault and his pet, who thanks to facial recognition software I know to be an ex-Navy SEAL who was dishonourably discharged for picking one too many fights with senior officers, are travelling in is nearing our floor, I close down the laptop screen and stand up. Instinct makes me want to both sigh and run my fingers through my hair, but I know I can't really do either. If I sigh now I probably won't stop, and as my alter-ego of Jackson Taylor wears his hair slicked back with gel I don't want to either mess it up or make my hands sticky.

Although I know I'm only wasting my breath and that if Nurse Bishop was here now she'd be crowing with satisfaction at having her 'pig-headed' slur so thoroughly demonstrated, I walk over to the closed door leading into Will's room and lightly rap my knuckles against it. “Thibault's almost to our floor, so you've got less than a minute to come to your senses and change your mind,” I call out. “I've been thinking about it, and I can actually do this on my own if I just tell Thibault you're otherwise... indisposed, so... Don't think you have to do it.”

Opening the door, Will steps out of the room and, as my jaw drops and my eyes try to bug out of my head, walks over to stand by the armchair near the window. Dressed in tight black leather trousers and with studded bands ringing his neck, wrists and upper arms, he's both bare footed and bare chested and looking as much the part as he's capable of, yet instead of being sexy he just looks... Vulnerable, if not downright fragile. While there's no denying he's got the physique to carry off the tightness of the trousers, the mass of still healing wounds detract from an otherwise fine torso and instead of wanting to... have my way with him, which essentially is the image he's meant to be selling, I just want to wrap him up in cotton wool.

“I've told you this already,” he states quietly as, already conforming to the role he's chosen to undertake, he keeps his gaze trained on the floor, “I do... I do have to do it.”

“You don't,” I protest, staring, even though I know I shouldn't, that it's not helping a damn thing, at the faint bruises circling his nipples and doing my utmost best not to – slam my balled up fist into the wall – imagine what caused them. “You don't have to do this, Will. No one will think any less of you if want to go back into the bedroom and just stay there. I can fob Thibault off and you...”

A sharp knock on the door silencing me, I hesitate over walking over to answer it and continue gazing at Will in the hope of being able to catch his, already scarily vacant, attention.

“Time to get the show on the road,” Will murmurs, giving me the most fleeting of glances as he drops to his knees and positions himself in a classic submissive pose by the side of the chair. Kneeling, spine and shoulders straight, chest on clear display, hands clasped behind back, head lowered, and eyes fixed on an invisible spot on the carpet in front of him. Again, to me anyway, he looks far from sexy and, knowing that I can't do anything to... protect... him from feeling as though he has to put on this performance just gnaws at me with a relentless intensity. 

“Just...” he adds in a whisper when it becomes obvious that I haven't moved so much as an inch. “Please, Ethan, just open the door and let's get this over with.”

There being nothing else I can really say, I reluctantly mutter, “Fine,” and, slipping my own – in this case only figuratively – mask into place, walk over to the door and wrench it open. Thibault, his pale face lighting up with delight at seeing me, beams a greeting and, despite it not even being close to the right sort of behaviour for an alleged Master, wraps his arms around me for a quick hug which, immediately stiffening at the sudden, uninvited invasion of my personal space, I don't return and simply shake him off before gesturing him into the room with a scowl.

“Pierre,” I mutter, gracing him with the briefest of brief smiles before turning my attention to his ex-SEAL pet du jour and coolly looking him up and down. Tall, solidly built, dark brown hair still cut regulation short, blank expression that I think has more to do with the lights being on but no one being home than him actually feeling submissive to Thibault, cold brown eyes and with a slight smirk stretched across his lips, he does absolutely nothing for me and I indicate this by giving a small, dismissive shrug.

Pouting – an unattractive picture all in itself – at my lack of appreciation for his prized position, Thibault snaps his fingers and the SEAL promptly begins to strip off his clothing. Folding my arms across my chest, I watch the perfunctory strip show intently because it's what's expected of me and once he's standing before me, fully naked save for what is most likely a sold gold cock ring around his hardly impressive member and matching gold nipple clamps, give another shrug of general indifference. What's more, my terminal lack of interest in the man isn't even part of my act. I don't find him even the slightest bit attractive, if anything he looked vaguely better clothed in his torn jeans and molded-to-his-prominant-muscles white t-shirt, and... Yeah. Whatever.

“All that matters is he works for you,” I murmur blandly as, clearly seeing a far more appealing sight than I am, Thibault tears his appreciative gaze away from his pet to give me a disappointed, wounded look.

“Maybe you just don't know perfection when you...” Trailing off as he suddenly spots Will kneeling by the armchair, his pale blue eyes light up and he claps his hand together gleefully. “Oh...”

“Yeah. Oh...” Positioning myself by Thibault's side so it looks as though I too am staring with admiration at my... pet, I give his arm a condescending pat and drawl, “What was that you were saying about perfection?”

“I didn't... I hadn't seen him... He... Oh, Jackson, he's even better than the one you had last time!” Flashing me a truly feral smile, Thibault, with, of all fucking things, a giggle of delight and a spring in his step, rushes over to Will and all but bounces up and down on the spot as he waits for me to join him. “I want... May I? Can I inspect him?”

Inspect. Like an animal or inanimate object. Something solely to be prodded, poked and neatly dissected. 

And I have to let him.

I have to let him... inspect... my – already hurting – friend all in the name of IMF and the greater good for the world at large.

It's not often I hate my job, but right now I'd take a career of flipping burgers in preference to it. At least slabs of beef don't have feelings and there's not a damn thing I could do to hurt them.

“If you must,” I reply with a put upon sigh that I soften with a smug, proud smile. “But, not being one to often share my toys,” I continue, jabbing my foot into Will's knee by way of letting him know I expect him to get to his feet, “only within reason.”

Nodding eagerly, Thibault watches Will as, his expression deceptively blank and his dull blue eyes downcast, he stands up and drops his arms to his side. “Whatever you say,” he murmurs breathlessly, “you're the boss here and I'll take... whatever... piece of this glorious creature I can get.”

“Taste wise, maybe there's hope for you yet,” I retort, moving to lean against the wall by the window in order to keep a watchful eye over proceedings as, leering, Thibault walks around Will and positions himself directly behind him. Lifting his hands, he first wafts them over Will's back before, trembling with what I can only imagine is excitement, he reverently strokes his finger along the still nasty looking welts. For a moment, probably only a few seconds although it feels like far longer, I watch this as though I'm, albeit with horror, transfixed. He... Fuck me. The little creep is honestly getting off on Will's injuries and, while I hardly thought it even possible, this causes my opinion of him to lower even further. He then, just as I can feel my professional mask becoming in danger of slipping to reveal an expression of revulsion, shifts even closer to Will and, I swear this has to be what he's planning on doing, lowers his head in anticipation of licking his back.

Startled – not fucking likely! – into life by the sheer nerve of him, I push away from the wall and, hooking my finger into Thibault's belt, pull him slightly backwards. “Strike one,” I mutter, giving him a warning look as he jerks his head up to pout at me.

“But...”

“No buts. You play by my rules or you don't play at all.” I don't add that he should consider himself lucky that he's not currently picking up his teeth from the carpet and, solely because I know I need to keep the ball rolling, tilt my head towards Will. “You may, assuming you promise to play nice, continue.”

His pout swiftly giving way to a blindingly happy grin, Thibault nods and, with one lingering, wistful glance at his back, moves around Will to stand in front him. Having established that I have rules, albeit ones that I'm keeping to myself until the right moment comes to share them, I follow him without hesitation and grace him with a magnanimous – 'by all means, go ahead' – smile when, clearly more nervous than he was a minute ago, he shoots me a nervous look.

“I won't be making this once-in-a-lifetime offer again,” I murmur with an impatient sigh when it becomes obvious that Thibault doesn't quite know what to do with himself. “If you'd rather...”

“I... I'm just taking my time and making the most of it,” Thibault murmurs as – after no doubt telling himself to man up – he straightens his shoulders and repeats his hand wafting routine over Will's torso. Keeping my eyes glued to his hands because I'm neither strong enough nor stupid enough to risk looking at Will's face, I notice in the nick of time that he's reaching for his nipple and, shifting immediately into action, reach out and smack his fingers away. 

“That,” I snap, “would be strike two.”

“But...” Looking miffed that I'm selfishly denying him his fun, Thibault clutches his hand to chest as though I'd just shot it with a cattle prod and scowls. “It's what he's here for.”

“It is,” I agree, backing my response up with a baleful smile and an unbothered shrug. “That is, he's here for... my... fun. Get that? Mine. Not yours. Now, you've got one more chance and then it's game over, so... Make the most of it.”

Thibault, in a move that makes him either braver or even more stupid than I've ever given him credit for, nods and makes a grab for the fly of Will's leather trousers. Momentarily taken aback by the surprising nerve of him, he manages to get it half down before I shove him away and angrily shake my head. “Strike three, and you're out,” I state, feigning an expression of disappointment. “Honestly, Pierre. I thought you'd be more... respectful... of another's property.”

Pouting – and I'm beginning to think this has to be his natural, default expression – Thibault, gestures at the naked SEAL as he continues to stand by the door. “If it would help, he's all yours,” he offers hopefully. “If you'd just let me... have a look,” he continues with a decided whine to his voice as he glances with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer at Will's groin, “I... I wouldn't even have to touch, just... Let me see and you can do whatever you like to...”

“Thing is,” I interrupt, “I don't like... and I'm not interested.”

“You don't like him?” Thibault queries, his eyes widening in shock as, Will momentarily forgotten about, he turns his attention to his impassive, dead from the knees up SEAL. “He's an ex... Navy something-or-other,” he adds in a defiant tone as though, I don't know, this random snippet of information should make me immediately change my mind. “He... He's perfect!”

“No.” I shrug. “He's not. He's... adequate, at best, and I'm not interested.”

“But... Look at him!”

“I am looking at him and, if he works for you then that's fine. He does not, however, work for me, and...” Pausing, I scowl and give Thibault a narrow-eyed, warning look. “I'm beginning to tire of this pointless conversation.”

Still not quite comprehending my lack of desire for his muscle-bound pet, Thibault shakes his head and tries again. “But... What's wrong with him?”

“Look at me,” I sigh as, moving next to Will, I stroke the back of my hand down his cheek before resting both hands on my hips to draw attention to my appearance and lightly shrugging. My clothing might be simple, but both my black trousers and open necked white shirt are bespoke, as are my shoes, and my watch is a rare, antique Rolex while my cuff links are Faberge. I may be a complete lowlife, but I'm a lowlife with expensive tastes and this is the angle I'm pushing here to get my point across to Thibault. “I am a man who only likes the best.”

“But...”

“Too big,” I comment, waving at the SEAL's overly-worked torso before dropping my gaze to his cock and sniffing haughtily. “Too small.”

“Oh...” Looking devastated that I could be so dismissive of his prize possession, Thibault's shoulders slump in disappointment and, shoving his hands in the pockets of his white linen pants, he avoids my eyes by staring over at a random spot on the wall.

Fearing that I may have gone too far or overplayed my hand, I walk over to Thibault and lightly place my hand on his arm. “If he works for you, my friend, then that is all that matters,” I murmur before leaning in close and whispering directly in his ear, “wanting, however, for things to remain pleasant between us, should I ever... upgrade... then how about I offer you first right of refusal?”

“You'd do that for me?” His equilibrium instantly restored at the thought of one day getting his paws on Will, he smiles at me happily and, grabbing my hand, gives it an enthusiastic shake. “Jackson! That... That's one of the nicest things anyone has ever offered me!”

“Well, while I certainly wouldn't be suggesting you hold your breath for it occurring any time soon,” I murmur, quickly returning his handshake before freeing my hand and taking a couple of steps away from him, “you might still want to mention to Stephen that he might need to be making an expensive purchase for you at some point in the future.”

“Oh! Just name your price. Whatever it is, Daddy will pay it for me without hesitation.”

Daddy. That's right. I can't believe I'd forgotten Thibault calls Palmer... 'Daddy'. It's just... All of it. It's too ludicrous for words. He wants people to believe that he's a... Master, yet he calls his own... Master... 'Daddy'. A psychiatrist would have a field day with him if they could ever get him on their couch, that's for sure.

“In that case, wanting the best price, I'll try to leave him in the same condition you see him in today,” I reply, gesturing Thibault towards the sofa. “Now, why don't you take a seat so that we can simply have a drink and a nice chat...”

“Of course. That, after all, is what I'm here for.” His head full of a future that's never going to happen, Thibault sits down on the sofa and, with a snap of his fingers, orders the SEAL down into a kneeling position in front of him. While he follows the order quickly enough, there's something half-hearted in the way he poses himself and I can't help but note he looks more bored than put out by the strangeness of the situation. His nudity clearly of no concern to him, he continues to smirk as his gaze roams around the room and I find myself liking him less and less by the second.

Walking over to the sideboard, I casually check to see that the tiny recording device Benji placed by the vase before he and Jane took themselves off to sightsee in the Maserati – as, much to Jane's disgust, the Veyron needed to remain here for Thibault to see – is working and, once that I've confirmed it is, I pick up the decanter and quickly pour out two glasses of scotch. “Hope scotch is okay,” I murmur, handing one of the glasses to Thibault before carrying mine over to the armchair by Will. Tapping him on the shoulder as I pass to silently order him back down on to his knees, I settle myself in the armchair and smile triumphantly. “Here's to getting everything we want,” I state, toasting Thibault with my glass before taking a much needed mouthful of scotch and hoping against hope that now that the... pleasantries... are out of the way we can finally get down to business.

“Make that... always... getting everything we want,” Thibault counters with a pointed look at Will as, wrinkling his nose and clearly getting no pleasure out of it, he quickly takes a sip of scotch. “You know, Jackson, it really is good to see you again,” he adds, placing his glass on the coffee-table and giving me what I can only translate as a genuinely happy smile. “Daddy's always surrounded by so many people, yet most of them can't bear to even give me the time of day. I know this is only the second time we've met, but... when I'm with you I truly feel as though I can be myself...”

“That's because we're peas from the same pod,” I reply, holding my glass up in a second toast. “We think alike, you and I, Pierre and, who know, perhaps one day, when there aren't quite so many... business opportunities... to keep us both busy, we might even end up living a little closer together.” Resting back against the chair, I take another sip of scotch and put on a small performance of making myself comfortable. “Now, on the subject of business opportunities, given that we're all in Barcelona for only one reason, what do you think may be up for auction?”

“Das Auction House, huh? Talk about exciting,” Thibault mutters, totally mangling the name even though I doubt it would have been intentionally. “I'm hoping that it'll be art.”

“Art?”

“Mmm... Daddy's promised me that I can redecorate the jet and I'd love to fill it with Old Masters, you know, make it look like a flying art gallery.”

“Sounds...” Hideous, but sadly truth is a foreign concept to me at the moment and I can't say what I'm thinking. “Great. It really sounds like a... great idea, Pierre. Da... Stephen's a lucky man to have you.”

Puffing up with visible pride at what he perceives to be a compliment, Thibault smiles across at me and, as I'd hoped he would, settles back on the sofa. “Daddy's got something new going on in Brazil and as we're having to go there at least once a month we're spending a lot of time flying around,” he replies, lapsing effortlessly into 'big-mouth mode', “and the jet, well, I'm just bored with it as it is.”

“Brazil, huh?”

“Mmm... Drugs or guns, I can't remember exactly but I think it's one or another. Whatever it is though, it's big and Daddy's putting a lot of work into getting it off the ground. Actually, not just Daddy as Carl Snelling, maybe you've heard of him, I think he's a bigwig in getting heroin into the states, is involved as well.”

Carl Snelling. Of course I've heard of him. He was involved in the torture and subsequent murder of an IMF agent six years ago and without him and his exceptionally well organised network the States probably wouldn't even have a heroin problem. He's also into trading anything he thinks he can make a quick buck from and, until now, had seemingly disappeared from our radar.

Which means, against the odds, this revolting charade has all been worth it.

It doesn't make me feel any better and, if Will's even listening I doubt he's mentally patting himself on the back for having dutifully played his part, but, still, at least it's... something.

“Snelling?” I prompt. “I haven't heard his name mentioned for so long that I was starting to think he had to be dead.”

“Dead? No. Just... and I hope I'm saying this correctly... diversifying... his interests. Daddy's known him forever, but this is the first time they've ever gone into business together.”

Thibault, the size of his mouth considerably larger than that of his I.Q., chats cheerfully about Palmer's business dealings and underground contacts for close to an hour. What's more, it's almost like a monologue as all I have to do is either grunt, nod, or agree occasionally, and, if it's something I know to be of specific interest to IMF, try to manage to get a quick question in. It's like, I don't know, he's trying to shoehorn twelve months worth of – confessions – conversation into sixty hours. 'Daddy took me here...' 'When we were... here... Daddy met with...' 'Did you know that so-and-so has now moved into high-end jewellery theft?' 'If you want to get in on the next big drug craze, then you need to talk to...' 'Have you heard about the latest weapon being developed by...'

His world revolving around luxury, both willingly and quite happily pandering to Palmer, toying with his pets and deluding himself that he's truly Master-material, Thibault just... doesn't get it. He doesn't get the... evil... Palmer perpetuates. He doesn't get that the ex-SEAL by his feet is laughing behind his back and is only there because of the money Palmer is pouring into his bank account. He doesn't get that what he's cheerfully telling me is the sort of information that Palmer would have a complete fit over if he knew it was being so casually bandied about. He doesn't get that his life isn't his own or that if I was truly his friend this wouldn't be only the second time we've met and that I'd have been in contact with him earlier.

There's no denying his usefulness, and the intel being recorded will keep the desk-monkeys busy for weeks as they chase up all the leads and search for confirmation of it all being the truth, but on so many levels the whole charade just disturbs me. Thibault's life, his obvious loneliness, the men-as-sex-toys thing, Palmer's far reaching empire, the way the damn SEAL keeps leering at Will as though he believes – this is real and that he really is only a mute slave kept around for the purposes of catering to my every perverted whim – he's better than him, the fact that Will hasn't moved a muscle since he returned to his kneeling position and, when I made the mistake of stroking a proprietary hand along his torso, his skin felt both cold and clammy. It just... All of it, it just disturbs me.

When Thibault's receives a message on his phone to tell him that Daddy has sent a driver to pick him up and that the car is already waiting downstairs, he pouts with evident disappointment at our little tête-à-tête having come so suddenly to an end while I have to quickly hide my relief behind a solemn expression of my own. Still pouting as he stands up, Thibault, with a none-too-gentle kick to his pet's knee to indicate he can get dressed, walks over to me and, once I've joined him in being on my feet, repeats his over-familiar greeting from earlier by swiftly enveloping me in a limpet-like hug.

“The time, it's gone far too quickly,” he complains as, not really knowing what to do with my arms, I wrap them very loosely around his waist and hug him back. “Seriously, Jackson, I hope there comes a day when your business interests merge with Daddy's. I mean...” Releasing me from his embrace, he drops his gaze to Will and, just on the off chance I was a little dim-witted myself and wouldn't comprehend what he was getting at without him going that... tacky... extra mile, licks his lips. “Just imagine the fun we could have if we were able to spend more time together!”

“Indeed,” I smirk, placing my hand on Thibault's arm and – just wanting him gone – gently steering him towards the door. “Until that day, however, we'll just have to make do with our... sadly... too-infrequent meetings.” Opening the door, I glower at the – surely brain dead – SEAL until, his smug, vacant expression not having changed once in all the time he's been here, he lopes past and waits for Thibault outside in the corridor. I feel like – being malicious – telling Thibault that his pet is insubordinate and that if he was mine I'd be wanting to teach him a lesson or two in respect but, not wanting to give Will any cause to believe I'd advocate S&M in any way, shape or form, I bite my tongue and simply let him slink forever out of my life without comment.

“Well, we can always hope,” Thibault murmurs wistfully as, pausing in the doorway, he gives Will one last, lingering look. “Now, that glorious creature I'm green with jealousy about...”

“Should the day come when I no longer want him around, I'm to let you know,” I finish, surreptitiously shifting in front of Thibault and effectively blocking his view. “It's okay, my friend, you have my word that you'll be the first to know when I'm planning to upgrade.”

“In that case, hopefully that day will come sooner rather than later,” Thibault replies, reluctantly stepping through the door and, almost as though he's seeing him for the first time, scowling at the SEAL. “Go and call the lift,” he commands flatly before turning back to face me and smiling sadly. “I suppose I'd better be on way then...”

Not wanting to encourage a drawn out farewell, I give a curt nod and begin to slowly close the door. “It's been great to see you, Pierre, but, you're right and you'd better go,” I state, glancing along the corridor towards the elevator. “So... Until next time.”

“Until next time,” he repeats, trying to peer past me to get one last look at Will but, the game already having come to an end as far as I'm concerned, I don't bother getting out of his way and, without saying another word, simply shut the door on him.

“Thank God that's over!” I exclaim, walking straight over to the digital recorder on the sideboard and switching it off. “Half of that stuff he was babbling was news to me though, so at least it was worth...” The rest of my – suddenly incredibly insensitive – airy declaration dies on my lips as I look over at Will and find him, not standing up and stretching as I fully expected he would be, still kneeling on the floor. His only concession to no longer being on show for an audience is to have relieved the pressure on his thighs by slumping back slightly and resting his butt on his heels but other than that though he hasn't moved. His arms are still behind his back, his head is still lowered, and he still won't look at me. I think, although I really hope it's only a by-product of this new shock finally causing my tether to snap and it's only a twisted hallucination, I can see his heart pounding in his chest and, be it real or not, it's enough to spur me into life. I may not know what I'm doing, and there's probably a fairly reasonable chance that I'll make things worse, but, there being no way I can just leave him trapped by his internal demons like this, I have to do something.

Swinging into Jane's room, I grab a mohair throw rug from the foot of the bed and hurry over to Will. Draping it carefully around his shoulders, I kneel down in front of him and, as he shows no signs of acknowledging me, sigh heavily. “I... I'm sorry, Will,” I murmur, reaching around him and gently pulling his arms out from behind his back. He puts up no resistance to this and, when I release his forearms, simply lets his arms hang loosely by his sides. “I... Shit! I just can't do anything right by you, can I... I should never have...”

“I'm not your responsibility,” Will whispers, any relief I may have felt at hearing him speak being negated by the fact he's talking to the floor and still won't lift his head. “You... You don't have to look after me, Ethan. I... I don't want to be a nuisance.”

“You're not a nuisance, as team leader you are actually my responsibility, not, however, that you'd know it given the fucking awful job I'm doing looking after you, and... I do,” I reply as, needing to at least feel as though I'm doing something, I slowly unbuckle the leather cuff encircling his left wrist and throw it across the room before moving on to the one on his right. “I do have to look after you and... Uh... The reason I have to look after you is because you're my friend and... I want to. I want, again, although you could be forgiven for thinking otherwise, to be able to look after you.”

“I'm not your responsibility,” Will repeats faintly as, having gotten rid of the wrist cuffs, I move onto ridding him of the leather bands around his upper arms. “I... I'm... I'll be fine. You don't have to worry about...”

“I can either worry and try to do my utmost best to help you,” I interrupt, throwing the last arm band across the room, “or I could... not that I'm going to, mind you... leave you here frozen to the spot and worry elsewhere. Either way, whether you like it or not, I'm going to worry. Now...” Very gently cupping his cheek in the palm of my hand, I slowly apply just enough pressure to let him know I'd quite like him to tilt his head back, and add, “Just look up and I'll get this collar off you.”

“You... You don't have to worry about me,” Will mumbles dejectedly as, still keeping his gaze averted, he nonetheless lifts his head and allows me to fumble over unbuckling the collar. “I... I just...”

Hating the feel of the offending collar in my hand, I throw it across the room with enough force that it slams heavily against the wall before tugging the blanket further around Will and, for no reason I can put it down to other than sheer instinct, re-cupping his cheek in my hand. “You deserve a medal for what you just put yourself through,” I murmur. “You didn't have to do it, but you did and you played your part to perfection, but... It's over now. Come on, Will, look at me. It's over and you can have a shower or finish what's left of the scotch or do... whatever... it is that you think will make you feel better. You don't have to apologise to me or...”

Soft lips, both suddenly and amazingly, brushing across mine rendering me – dumbfounded – silent, I've only just got my startled brain around the fact that Will's tentatively kissing me when, cold hard reality apparently slapping him in the face, he jerks back. Wide eyed and slightly panicked looking, he shuffles backwards and, in his haste to get away from me, gets tangled up in the blanket and falls on his ass. “I... Ethan, I...” Clapping his hand over his mouth, he scoots even further backwards and only comes to a stop when his back hits the wall by the window. “I never... I'm sorry. I shouldn't have...”

“Hey... Shhh...” Quickly crawling closer to Will but, not wanting to look as though I'm closing in on him, I come to a stop by his outstretched legs and hold my hands out in a hopefully non-threatening gesture. “Hey... It's okay. I don't mind. Hell... I really don't mind.”

“I shouldn't have done it,” Will whispers, pulling the blanket tightly around his shoulders as he draws his knees up to his chest. “You said do what I thought would make me feel better and I... I did that without thinking and I'm sorry. I shouldn't have.”

“I'm actually glad you did,” I reply, praying that an entirely random yet truthful confession doesn't upset Will even further. If he kissed me because it's what he wanted to do in an attempt to feel better, then... I'm both honoured and incredibly blessed.

“I shouldn't have.”

“Will... It's okay. If it helps, you can kiss me whenever...”

“No!” Will exclaims with an adamant shake of his head. “I... I'm not clean and I never should...”

“What are you talking about? Of course you're clean, and...”

“I'm not,” he interrupts as, clearly agitated, he looks up and locks his far too bright eyes on mine. “Maybe there's varying definitions of clean... and maybe one I'll never truly reach again, but... but the other one, the one I should have been thinking about instead of being so... selfish... is...dependent on the results of a blood test in two weeks time. So... Ethan, you see...”

“I still say you're clean,” I state, cutting him off and crawling over to settle myself on the floor with my back against the wall next to him. “Listen to me, Will, nothing will change my opinion of you and that's... that I admire you.”

“You can't. I'm a...”

“I can, and I do. I've admired you from that moment in the train carriage when you agreed to come to Dubai. You... You just do what you feel as though you have to do and, if that isn't cause for admiration then I don't know what is. You hadn't been wanting to return to field work at that point, but you didn't hesitate in joining the team and doing your bit to stop Cobalt. You... jumped and, even now, despite what you've recently been through, you're still jumping...”

Glancing at me shyly as some of the tension visibly leaves his body, Will dredges up a wan smile and shifts closer to my side. “Can't say I much feel like jumping at the moment,” he mutters, sighing.

“You don't have to,” I reply as, without pausing to fall prey to doubt, I drape my arm around his shoulders and hug him to me. “You've already jumped and... I'm catching you.”

Nodding, Will relaxes against me and, curling his hand around my thigh, rests his head on my shoulder. “Just... Tell me it was worth it...”

“It has to be,” I whisper, planting a quick kiss on the top of his head. “Just... Do as I do and keep telling yourself that it has to be, that all of this has to be worth it...”

~*~*~*~*~*~

“Whatever you're thinking, keep it to yourself,” Jane states, giving me a warning look as, the elevator doors gliding silently closed, she sets about taking off her very high, very strappy, and very uncomfortable looking shoes. “It's all right for you,” she continues, scowling first at me and then down at the shoes that are now in her hands as, a good six inches shorter than she was only a moment ago, she leans back against the elevator's mirrored lining and sighs with evident relief. “You're not expected to...”

“Did I... say... anything?” I murmur, looking her up and down and rolling my eyes. “I'm not sure how your normal, all terrain choice of footwear would have gone with that dress, but, if you'll think back, at no point in time did I come in and force you to wear them.”

“Smart ass,” Jane retorts, laughing. “I'm going to remember that though. So, just you wait. The next time a mission calls for having to dress up like a Barbie doll, I'm going to go with boots instead of heels and if anyone asks I'll just say it was with your blessing.”

Shrugging my acceptance at her, let's face it, completely idle threat, I lean against the mirrored wall next to her and watch the floor numbers flash up on the elevator's screen as we're carried up to the floor our suite's on. “You do that.”

“I will.”

“And I'm looking forward to it already.”

“Smart ass.”

“I think the pain in your feet may just be making you a little repetitive.”

Laughing again, Jane smiles and bumps her hip against mine. “You're actually lucky I'm not wearing any footwear at the moment as I'd probably kick you.”

“Why let the lack of footwear stop you?” I mutter only half jokingly. “It would, after all, be just about the cherry on top of a rather crappy day.”

“Crappy or not, at least it's all falling into place,” Jane replies, her mood turning serious as she links her elbow around mine. “We know the auction's tomorrow, we know we've got a guaranteed in, and we've now got a far better idea of the players that are in town for it. It's been a shit of a day, for sure, but we're getting there.”

She's right, of course, and I let her know this by smiling and tightening my arm around hers. Despite the somewhat high cost, Thibault's visit this afternoon more than paid off intel wise, and the late-notice cocktail party Jane and I have just returned from after having been summonsed to by Das Auktionshaus earlier this evening was thankfully worth it as well. Living up to their legendary organisational skills, the cocktail party was merely a taster, a meet and greet for all the prospective buyers to eye each other off at, for what's to come tomorrow and I'm as glad that we were there as I am that it's over. Like everything about today, I wasn't particularly comfortable mingling with, and having to make small talk with them all, but in my pocket there's a new cell phone just waiting to receive the address details of the auction when they're released and Das Auktionshaus itself knows that I'm legitimate. Jane would have preferred not to have done the 'dress and heels' thing, and, well, I would have preferred to have watch paint dry, but... It's done now and, with any luck, by this time tomorrow the auction will have been and gone and it'll all just be over.

“Speaking of getting there,” Jane continues as, the elevator having reached our floor, we step out into the corridor and, keeping our arms linked, begin to make our way along it to our suite. “What about Will? Do you, and I want you to be honest with me here, think he'll be okay? Finding the pair of you still on the floor when we got back this afternoon, it...”

“He'll be fine,” I interject. “Don't forget it's still early days, but... In time, I'm sure he'll be okay.”

“I hope you're right,” she replies, coming to a stop and, pulling her arm free of mine, shifting to stand in front of me. “Just... I don't want him to, of course I don't, but he... He has quit field work before and I'm worried that all of this will make him doubt himself again.”

“Sadly, I suspect that's a given,” I sigh, stepping around Jane and continuing along the corridor, “but, don't worry about him quitting the team though because I'm fairly confident that's not on the cards.”

“No?” Catching up and getting back in step with me, Jane tilts her head and gives me an openly curious look. “He's said as much to you?”

“No.”

“Then what makes you think...”

“Think about it. Would he have even agreed to come to Barcelona, let alone do what he did this afternoon, if he was wanting to just throw it in? I don't know about you, but if I was thinking of leaving the field I wouldn't be... pushing... myself this hard while I tried to make up my mind.” I could be wrong and, no, I haven't asked Will what he's hoping his future holds, but as far as my version of logic goes, I like to think that in this case it's fairly faultless. He's putting the extra work in because this, staying out in the field, is what he wants. No one's forced him to do anything, yet he's stood up, put himself forward, and played his part. And that absolutely has to count for a lot.

“I hope you're right,” Jane responds. “Actually... I'm sure you're right. Will's not an idiot and he wouldn't be doing this to himself if this wasn't what he wanted. So... We just keep doing what we've been doing, yeah?”

Reaching into my pocket for the door key, I nod and flash Jane a reassuring smile. “ He'll get there, you'll see,” I murmur as the door to our suite is suddenly wrenched open and a rather frazzled looking Benji appears in front of us.

“Thank God you're here,” he announces, gesturing us into the suite as, noticing her bare feet, he gives Jane a funny look. “What happened to your... Uh... Never mind....” Closing the door, he turns his attention to me and, sighing, shrugs half-heartedly. “Will, he... I think he may have just had a nightmare and... uh... because I don't want to say the wrong thing to him I... Uh...”

“It's okay, Benji,” I state, giving his shoulder a small pat as I walk past him in order to grab a bottle of water from the refrigerator. “You can't actually say... anything... wrong to him.” Placing the bottle on the sideboard, I slip off my tuxedo jacket and drape it over the back of the sofa before pulling off my bow tie and unbuttoning the top three buttons of my shirt. “Trust me, I've tried more times than I care to remember and... he's far more unflappable than I think we give him credit for.”

Shooting me a confused look as I retrieve the bottle and begin to make my way over to Will's room, Benji opens his mouth and gapes at me for a few seconds before glancing at Jane and frowning. “I... Why would he try to say the wrong...”

“He didn't mean intentionally, you idiot,” Jane mutters with a fond smile as, clearly unbothered by the life-expectancy of her very expensive dress, she flops down on the sofa and rests her feet up on the coffee-table. “Come on, Benji. I'll explain it all to you while you give me a foot massage.”

“Oh... Okay.”

Smiling to myself at Jane and Benji's easy, almost sibling-like relationship and how incredibly effortlessly they always seem to get on, I reach Will's door and, after giving it the most cursory of knocks, open it and walk straight in. The room bathed in soft light coming from a lamp on the bedside table, I can clearly see Will as he sits, dressed in pyjamas and holding his head in his hands, on the edge of the mattress. To my considerable relief though he actually looks up at me and, as I walk over and take a seat on the bed next to him, I take this to be a good, promising sign. His shoulders are slumped, he's pale, drawn, and struggling to hold it together, but he's here and he's meeting my gaze, and, seriously, I'll simply take whatever I can get.

“Go well?” Will queries, wincing as he pushes his shoulders back and shifts into a slightly more upright position.

Unscrewing the lid from the bottle, I hand him the water and, once he's taken it from me with a nod of thanks, pull the cell phone out from my pocket and drop it on the bed. “Believe it or not, everything actually went pretty much to plan for a change,” I reply. “Das Auktionshaus will send the address of the auction to that phone sometime tomorrow and then it's game on.”

“Good. It's definitely on, then.” Sighing, Will takes a long drink of water before prying the lid from my fingers and screwing it back onto the bottle. He then presses it against his forehead and sighs again.

“Headache?”

“Since the throwing up stopped, always,” Will murmurs with a shrug as, noticing that I'm looking around the room, and quickly putting two and two together, he points at a leather bag on the floor. “If you're looking for painkillers, I think they're somewhere in there.”

Getting up, I crouch down by the bag and pull back the zip to display a far greater collection of medication than, really, I ever wanted to see. I know it's only the course of PEP, and that that in itself can only be viewed as a good thing as what it's endeavouring to protect him from would be far, far worse, but... Seeing all the plastic bottles also reminds me of... why... he's having to pop so many pills and... It just gets to me, that's all.

Spotting the paracetamol amongst all the other bottles, I choke back a sigh and tip two of the little white pills into the palm of my hand before standing up and returning to the bed. “Here.”

“Thanks.” Taking the pills from me, Will swallows them with a quick mouthful of water. “ Anyone there you recognised?” he asks as, placing the bottle between his knees, he rests his palms flat on the mattress and, leaning back, closes his eyes.

“Quite a few of the usual, expected faces,” I reply, sitting back down next to Will and stretching my legs out in front of me. “Palmer was there. He actually made a point of cornering me and, thanks no doubt to Thibault's rabid enthusiasm, offered me a no questions asked million to simply hand you straight over.”

Opening his eyes, Will gives me a wry look. “A million, huh?”

I nod. “Clearly you made one hell of an impression on the little creep. Daddy, it just has to be said, looked most... miffed... when I had the nerve to say no to him.”

“Seeing as I'm not worth even a tenth of that,” Will murmurs, closing his eyes again, “you should have taken it.”

“Never,” I reply, placing my hand lightly on his knee. “Even if you were for sale, no one would be able to afford my asking price anyway.”

“You're overvaluing my worth,” Will sighs.

“And you're undervaluing it,” I counter, curling my fingers gently around his knee as, possibly better late than ever – given that I don't even know what I was thinking when I oh-so-casually let Palmer's offer slip – I decide the time has come for an abrupt change in subject. “What are you doing up anyway? Did you have a nightmare?”

Shrugging, Will tilts his head further back and whispers, “More like... flashbacks.” Shifting his knee out from under my hand and letting the water bottle drop to the floor in the process, he screws his eyes even more tightly shut and releases a deep, shuddery breath. “I... I can remember all of it, you know... Every fucking second. Their faces, the smell, what it... felt like, their touch, the feel of their... Fuck! I can even remember everything that was said...”

“Will...” Hindsight once again being a complete bitch, maybe my desperate bid to change the subject wasn't so wise after all. In fact, I wish I'd never opened my stupid mouth. “It's okay, it's...”

“Suck it... Take it... You love this, don't you...” Will states flatly, pushing on regardless and talking all over the top of me as, most likely unconsciously, he clutches his fingers into the soft cotton of the sheet. “I'm going to make you beg for mercy. Then... Then there was this one guy, some fifty-something, fat, balding fucker, if you'll excuse the extreme irony, who kept saying that I was too old, that he liked... younger meat. It... It didn't stop him though from shoving his...” His eyes flying open, Will groans and, jumping to his feet, bolts for the bathroom that connects his room with mine.

Following Will into the bathroom without either a second's thought or hesitation, I lean against the door and, knowing that there's nothing I can do to help him, watch as, kneeling by the toilet and clinging to the bowl, he throws up. When, breathing raggedly and resting back on his heels, it's clear that he's finished, I help him over to the vanity unit and turn on the cold water for him to both rinse his mouth out with and to splash over his face. Once he's done this and his breathing is thankfully back under control, I hand him a towel and watch him pat it over his face and neck before returning it to the rack and, with my hand on his shoulder, walking him back to the bed. Not a word is spoken in the bathroom and I don't think the moment suffers for it. Will passively allows my assistance and I just... give it. While it's far from an... event... I'd ever want to commit to memory, I can't help but think that perhaps it's a... defining... moment in our relationship. Will lets me help him and, without worrying about it or second guessing myself, I just do what I have to do.

“Better out than in, huh?” Will mutters drily as, sinking back down on the edge of the mattress, he rubs his hands over his face. 

The double meaning of his statement being obvious enough to not require a response, I simply nod and sit back down next to him. “You do know, don't you, that we're here for you?” I query softly. “That... everyone in this hotel suite will do everything in their power to help you through this. We're all in this with you, Will. You're not alone and, if you ever want us, we're all here for you.”

“I...” Nodding slowly, Will looks at me and smiles. “I'm beginning to,” he murmurs with a sigh. “I just... It's all just new to me. All of it. Being part of a team again, what happened, you...” Trailing off, he glances down at his feet. “Some times it all just feels like too much, that... whatever I do I can't seem to keep my head above water.”

“Well, that's what we're here for,” I state, placing my arm around Will's shoulders and hugging him against me. “We'll hold you up when you feel in danger of sinking and you're never to forget that. This may sound arrogant, Will, but I make it a habit of only working with the best, and, this too is something you're never to forget, that very much includes you.”

Snorting, Will shakes his head. “Your definition of best needs some fairly serious tweaking.”

“No. It doesn't.”

Lifting his head, Will glances at me and, after what feels like a fairly lengthy silence, murmurs, “Maybe it's an Ethan Hunt special, but you always seem to know the right thing to say.”

“When I'm not putting my foot in it, you mean?” I mutter with a snort of my own.

“Even then it's always been accidental and never... meant to wound.”

“No... Never. Just... done without thinking.”

Shifting closer, Will leans against me and rests his hand on my thigh. “I just want you to know that I appreciate it, that I appreciate... everything... everyone's done for me and... uh... that I don't want to let you all down and that I'm... getting there. It doesn't always feel like it, and God knows... this afternoon in particular... that I do little to show it most of the time, but... I am.”

“Of course you are,” I reply, placing my hand on his and pressing down on it. “As for this afternoon? Just... Don't dwell on it. What you did was... extraordinary, and keep in mind your presence by my side would have been the only reason Palmer sought me out, and what happened... afterwards... was just... understandable. It was a big ask of you, Will, but you did it and, if anything, you should actually feel proud of yourself. Now...” Smiling broadly in a pre-emptive strike to stop his inevitable protest, I glance towards the door and add, “How about we go and join the others, huh? I know getting to spend a little time with you would help put Jane's mind to rest, and, well, Benji was kind of fretting that you'd had a nightmare and he was terrified of doing the wrong thing by you, so...”

“I'm actually liking... this,” Will responds, pulling his hand out from under mine only to reach up and curl his fingers around my other hand as it rests on his shoulder. “But...” Blinking, he quickly kisses my cheek before standing up and stretching. “Come on, then. Let's go and... mingle... before I decide to just sit back down and, seeing as it seems to be becoming something of a habit, fall asleep on you yet again.”

Liking both that his mood seems to have improved and that he's comfortable enough with falling asleep on my shoulder to be making a joke about it, I give an easy shrug and stand up. “There's always time for that later,” I smile, walking over to the door and closing my hand around the handle. “Good to go?”

“I'm...” Frowning, Will glances down at his black pyjama pants and dark grey long sleeved t-shirt. “Half decent?”

“Seeing as we might be walking in on Benji still massaging Jane's feet,” I retort, “I don't really think the issue of... decency... is one you need to be concerning yourself with.”

“I don't think I want to know!” Laughing, which in itself is the most glorious sound I've heard in days, Will joins me by the door and, opening it, I gesture him out into the room. Benji's massage skills clearly having done the trick in restoring Jane's equilibrium, she's sitting – in jeans and a simple white shirt – on the sofa grinning at whatever it was that Benji had just said while, having just shut the suite's main door, he pushes a room service trolley over towards the sideboard.

“Hey, look, Benji,” Jane calls out, curling her finger at Will in an open invitation to join her on the sofa. “Talk about perfect timing.”

Deciding to play along, even though I know she's referring to the arrival of their room service order, I glance at Will and frown. “Perfect timing? I don't know what she's talking about, do you?”

“Thinking we deserved it after the day... uh... some of us... have had,” Benji interjects, lifting the cover from the tray to display a pot of coffee and four slices of decadent looking chocolate cake, “we decided to order cake.”

“Cake, huh?” I make a tsking sound under my breath and shake my head. “What do you think of that?”

“I've got to say I've heard worse suggestions,” Will replies as, finally getting Jane's... increasingly pointed – what with the expectant look and non stop finger curling – invitation, he accepts two plates of cake from Benji and walks over to join her. “Hello,” he murmurs, handing her one of the plates as he takes a seat next to her. “I gather you were wanting to see me?”

“Damn right,” she grins as, balancing the plate precariously on her lap, she drapes her arms around Will and gives him a brusque hug. “What's more, it's good to see you too.”

Taking the piece of cake offered to me by Benji, I lean against the wall and watch the good natured goings on of my team with a contented smile on my face as, suddenly, the day doesn't strike me as having been so bad after all. 

~*~*~*~*~*~


	5. Chapter 5

~*~*~*~*~*~

Stepping into the shower, I pull the glass door shut behind me and, not being in any rush, close my eyes and just let the hot water beat down on my head and shoulders. It's never made any sense to me, but I find a day mooching around headquarters to be far more exhausting than anything even the most full on, non-stop day out in the field can throw at me. Instead of running around like a mad thing and feeding off stress, adrenaline and, in quite a few cases, sheer panic, I've done little more today than sit on my ass and finalise the Barcelona mission report. Which, seeing as it all pretty much went to plan – once the unexpected fly in the ointment of having to pander to Thibault's delusions was successfully out of the way, that is – wasn't exactly what you'd call a difficult task.

Went to Barcelona. Went with the flow and gathered invaluable intel from Thibault. Went to cocktail party and gathered new names and faces for the ever-growing Das Auktionshaus mailing list. Went to – mixed bag – auction and took note of who were the winning bidders for the ivory, heroin and weapons that ended up being on offer. Went back to the motel and confirmed that the tracking markers I'd been able to place on most of the items were all up and running. Went to the effort of preparing intel reports on all the buyers and sent them out to the teams closest to their home location. Went back to D.C., satisfied that the task had been well done and that the information gained would have far reaching consequences.

Again, writing it up, even though it was admittedly in far greater detail, wasn't hard. It was, however, nowhere near as interesting as it was being in the 'thick of things' in Barcelona and I suspect it's because of that, the boring reporting of what is to me simply history, that I feel so... flat. The mood won't last though. It never does. It's just the usual short lived... post-mission, come done blues. That, and I never like being stuck in the office anyway. It's not... me... and I don't know how Will, who I honestly believe gets as much out of field work as I do, was able to cope with it for so long. Taking training classes I can just about handle as I'm still on my feet and getting to run around, but the thought of being stuck behind a desk? Never. I just couldn't do it.

The unwelcome sound of the intercom at the front door buzzing into life interrupting my far from fascinating thoughts, I open my eyes and – yes, because I am paranoid enough to have a home security system that extends to... every... room in the house – bring up the live camera feed on the small, waterproof screen in the shower. Seeing that my guest is Will, my mood takes an instantaneous move for the better and, switching off the water, I step out of the shower and snatch up a towel. Dr Cavendish not having been at all impressed that he'd been out in the field when he was still listed as being on convalescent leave, I only briefly saw him from a distance today as – no doubt after having been duly chastised by the doctor – he was leaving the infirmary and heading in the direction of the parking garage, and had been planning to drop by his house later this evening to see how things were going.

Almost as pleased at the fact that I'm no longer going to have to find the energy to leave the house as I am by Will having made the effort to come and see me, I tie the towel tightly around my waist and, still dripping wet, jog down the stairs to the front door. Opening it, the happy greeting I'd been planning to give dies on my lips as, taking in the sight of my near-nudity, Will blinks wide eyes at me and takes half a step backwards.

“I... I'm sorry. I should have called first instead of just coming around uninvited,” he mutters, blushing as he pulls his car keys from his pocket and, clearly taken aback and disconcerted, turns to leave. “I... I didn't mean to interrupt anything and... uh... apologise for...”

“Interrupting a shower is hardly what I call... interrupting,” I quickly reply, hating that he's so obviously bothered by bare flesh because of what it... currently... represents to him, “and, trust me, you never need an invite to come around anyway. So... Please. Come in. I'll just go and get dressed.”

“I shouldn't have come,” Will responds, gazing down at the keys in his hand as he tries to decide whether to finish whatever he came here to do or whether he should just get as far away from the near naked man as possible. “Just... Finish your shower and I'll...”

“You're here now, so you may as well just come in,” I state, backing away from the doorway. “So... Make yourself at home while I go and put something on.” Staring at Will as he dithers not going to make the moment any better, I leave him on the path and, all the time hoping that he chooses to say, head back upstairs to my bedroom. Grabbing the first t-shirt and pair of jeans I come to in the chest-of-drawers, I pull them on over still damp skin and, leaving the room, walk back in the direction of the front door. Finding it shut, some of the tension I'd been feeling leaves my body and, turning into the open plan living area, I find Will – looking lost – hovering by the sofa.

“Good. You're still here,” I smile as, jerking his head around, he flicks his gaze over me but, the damage having already been inadvertently done, won't meet my eyes. “Now, would you like something to drink? Coffee? Scotch? Water?”

“I'd love a scotch,” Will replies, “but I... I'd better take a water, thanks.”

“You can have whatever you'd...”

“No. I can't. Not only can't I have alcohol with all the Godforsaken pills I'm still on, but... uh... if I had one I really don't think I'd be able to stop.”

“Water it is then.” Berating myself for not having thought about the whole alcohol-and-prescription-drugs not mixing angle in preference to wondering about what's on Will's mind that's apparently making him want to drink, I walk into the kitchen and get two bottles of water from the refrigerator before returning to the living area and throwing one to Will. “I'm glad you're here,” I state, taking a seat in the armchair as, after a couple of seconds hesitation, Will perches himself on the edge of the sofa. “I'd been planning on coming around later, so you've saved me the trip.”

“I... I've been thinking,” Will announces, scratching his fingernail aimlessly at the paper label circling the water bottle, “and... I know it's not something you're probably going to want to hear, but, I... I can't get it out of my head and...” Sighing, he fumbles over unscrewing the lid of the bottle before taking a hurried gulp of water and, as though it's given him the courage to push on, hurriedly adding, “What would you say if I told you I'm thinking of asking to be assigned to another team?”

“I...” Actually, never having been expecting to hear it, that's a damn good question. And not one I know immediately how to answer without either sounding defensive, pissed off, or even slightly – hurt – dictatorial. “First I'd want to know your reasons,” I reply, somehow sounding, to my relief, a lot calmer than I actually feel. “It's your life, Will, and any decisions you need to make are yours and yours alone. So, if it's what you really want to do I'll speak to the Secretary and start the transfer process myself. I would still, however, like to know the reason behind your request. I... I think you owe me at least that.”

“I owe you far more than that, and that's the problem,” Will sighs. “I also don't want to change teams but I think, for your sake if not Jane and Benji's as well, that I need to. I thought... Before Baltimore, anyway, I thought that I was... holding my own, that the part I was managing to play was... equal... to that of everyone else's. Now though, I... I just feel like a liability, that everyone is so concerned with trying to keep me together that I can see it... at some point... proving to be to the detriment of a mission.”

Just... Fuck it, fuck it, fuck it! I wish those sick bastards who got their twisted thrills from... playing with... Will in that shipping container could see him now, and the lingering damage they've caused for no good reason – period – other than bringing their perverted fantasies to life. To each their own, seriously. If being whipped and made to submit floats your boat then, whatever, I don't care. Live and let live, and it takes all sorts. What turns you on is of no interest to me whatsoever so long as it's consensual and, hopefully, legal. I don't even care if you barely tolerate it and only allow it to be done to you in order to pay the bills. You're still there by choice and you still know what you're getting yourself into. Ditto if your idea of good time is wielding the whip while having some – willing – slave lick your boots. I may not get it but, go for it. Do not, however, force someone into it. That's called rape and while you may be lucky to recall your orgasm the following day, your victim will never be able to forget what was done to them against their wishes. It can ruin lives and, for what, a moment of sick pleasure?

That said, and I'm not proud of this thought, but I think at the moment I could quite easily watch the same torture being performed on the perpetrators themselves. I wouldn't want to be involved myself, but I still think I could bring myself to watch solely because the... hatred... I feel for them is so great that it's about what they deserve. 

“Yet... You wouldn't feel like that if you were on another team?” I query at last, masking my internal anguish behind a carefully schooled expression of bland understanding.

“They wouldn't know...”

“They would.” I hate to say it, and, going on the way he just visibly flinched, Will didn't want to hear it any more than I wanted to say it, but, it's true. Bad news travels fast at HQ and while not everyone would know the name of the agent who'd been... fucked up... they'd all know that it had happened to someone and that, if they really wanted to know who, it wouldn't take much to find out.

“They... wouldn't care though,” Will whispers, rolling the water bottle between the palms of his hands. “So long as I passed all the physical and psych tests and played my part, that's all that should matter to them...”

I shrug and, still playing it far calmer than I feel, lean back in my seat. “Maybe you're right,” I reply, “but, and I'm getting the impression here that you haven't actually thought of this, whoever it was you scored as the team leader, he or she would still be responsible for you. They mightn't talk to you about anything other than work or give a fuck how you were feeling, but they'd still, as it's part and parcel of the role, be responsible for your actions. Just as I'd still be responsible for whoever we'd end up with as your replacement. It could be someone I could barely stand to be in the same room with but it still wouldn't matter as the buck would stop with me and I'd be responsible for them.”

Frowning, Will takes a sip of water and doesn't reply. I gather from both his expression and silence that I'm right, and that he hadn't quite thought about it that way.

“Will...”

“It doesn't matter,” he interjects, shaking his head. “I could...” Trailing off, he shakes his head again and, looking increasingly dejected, slumps back on the sofa. “Ethan, I... I don't want you to feel responsible for me as none of this is your fault. All the decisions that have got me to this point have been mine. I packed up my toys and became an analyst after Croatia. I joined your team after Mumbai. Hell, I even came up with the Coast Guard cover for Baltimore and... no one twisted my arm to either go to Barcelona or to... whore myself to Thibault. I... Me... I made each and every one of those decisions and you're not to blame yourself for any of them. And... because they're all on me, you shouldn't have to feel as though you're... trapped... into keeping me together.”

“Back to the responsibility thing for a second,” I respond, ignoring the... guilt side of things for a moment as I plan to get back to that when I've put this to bed once and for all. “Let's say you join another team and you're no longer my... IMF sanctioned... responsibility. It won't stop me worrying about you. You could be on the other side of the world and I'd still be worried about you and, Will, the reason I'd be worried is because I care about you. Sure, I've blamed myself for Baltimore because, let's face it, if I'd never invited you back into the field it never would have happened and, hey, I still regret parading you in front of Thibault, but... The main reason for all this guilt, blame and regret is because you mean so much to me and I would do... or give anything to have stopped any of it from happening. I can't though, so all I have left is doing whatever I can to try to help.”

His mouth dropping open in surprise, Will looks over at me and, for the first time since landing on my doorstep, locks his troubled gaze on mine. “Ethan, I... You... You can't, I mean...”

“I can, and I do,” I interrupt, watching Will's eyes slide back down to the water bottle in his hands before deciding, despite my questionable success with it in the past, to slightly change the subject. “Now, moving on. Tell me what... you... want, Will. Not what you think is in everyone's best interests other than your own, but what... and I don't care if you think it's wishful thinking or living in a dream world... you want.” Pausing, I lean forward and soften what may very well have come across as a demanding rant with a smile. “If it helps, I want you on my team. You fit in perfectly and I can tell you without even having to ask them that both Jane and Benji feel the same way. Not sharing my... guilt issues... they've hovered around you these past weeks because they care about you and it's what they've wanted to do. I didn't, in case you've been wondering, force... or even ask... them. They did all of it entirely of their own accord.”

Sighing, Will gets to his feet and goes to stand by the window. “I want to stay,” he murmurs, hugging his arms around his torso and keeping his back to me. “Of course I do. Most of my career has been at IMF and I've never felt so much a part of something, of a... team... before. The three of you, you all made me feel welcome from the very beginning, but...”

“Uh-uh... No buts.” Standing up, I join Will by the window. “You want to remain with the team, and we want the same thing, so... Please. Put your, in this case, warped, even though I do want you to know that I sort of understand where you're coming from, logic aside, accept that you're wanted, and... say that you'll stay. Will... You're as much a part of the team as any of us are and, I'm telling you now, it just wouldn't be the same without you.”

“But...” Hanging his head, Will shifts a little further away from me and, in a voice barely above that of a whisper, murmurs, “It's not just the team I want. I... I want you as well and I... I have no right, so...”

“Of course you have the right,” I interject, the pleasure I should be feeling at Will's confession being trampled on by his obvious shame. “Just... Come on, Will. Look at me. You have every right and...”

“I don't. Not when I have nothing to offer you.” Suddenly looking up, he snorts and shakes his head. “Nothing good, anyway. If it's a daily freak out you're after though, then, hey, I'm your man.”

“Will...”

“You did a good job of hiding it, but I know you saw my... perfectly fucking irrational... reaction when you opened the door in nothing but the towel. For a second I didn't even see... you... as all I could see was too much bare flesh!” Will exclaims agitatedly. “Now, even you, Mr Always Knows The Right Thing To Say, can't see anything normal or... or promising... in that sort of retarded reaction!”

“If I'd been through what you've been through I probably would have reacted the same way,” I reply quietly as Will stares at me through eyes flashing with emotion. “It... It's all right. You're... all right. Look, I'm no psychiatrist, but there's probably a reasonable chance that things might get even worse before they get better, but... If it's what you genuinely want, I'll be by your side every step of the way.” Pausing, I pray that I'm not about to make a horrible mistake, and, reaching out my hand, rest it lightly on Will's shoulder. He flinches at my touch and gazes down at my hand as though it could easily be a tarantula sitting on him, but doesn't pull away. “Will... I care about you deeply and I'll take you any way that I can get you.”

“Even though...”

“You're not a freak.”

“I am now.”

“No. You're not.”

“I am. The mere thought of...”

“Then don't think about it.”

“I have to. I have to be honest with myself and with... you.”

“It's not the be all and end all.”

“It's... normal, though. And, I would think, a fairly reasonable expectation.”

“As is the expectation that if someone really cared about you they'd wait, without pressure or impatience, for however long it took.”

Something – at long last – in my response getting through the white noise of unhappiness in Will's head, he releases a deep breath, softens his stance and looks me in the eye. “It wouldn't be fair of me to expect...”

“It would. It would be completely fair,” I reply, shifting closer to Will and hardly believing it when, instead of backing away, he moves forward too. “You're the one in charge and... I'll wait however long it takes you to feel ready. It... I think I've said this before, but it's all about you, Will.”

“I... Damn it!” Lifting his hand, Will strokes his fingers along the side of my face and, to both my surprise and instant delight, rolls his eyes and laughs softly. “I came here this evening to... free... you,” he murmurs, “not to... fall even harder... for you. Damn you, Ethan, but it looks like... if it's truly what you want... that you're going to be stuck with me after all.”

Echoing his laugh, I show my relief by enveloping Will in a warm, incredibly tight embrace. Although it's the first time I've stepped things up from a simple arm around the shoulder, Will presses against me and returns the hug without hesitation. “Trust me. It's what I truly want.”

~*~*~*~*~*~

The sound of the far door opening providing a welcome distraction to both the waiting room's morgue-like silent atmosphere and the terminally boring articles on the online newspaper on my iPad, I glance up and, to my surprise, discover that the newcomer is Luther. Smiling a greeting at him, my surprise then grows a notch as, looking as though he's just been well and truly caught doing something he shouldn't be, Luther feigns fascination with reading the time on his watch and, in general, gives every indication of wanting to slip back out through the door without so much as acknowledging my presence. He then, with both a scowl and a shrug, limps over to where I'm sitting on the sofa and peers down at me with a sour expression on his face.

“Hey.” Pleased to him even though it's fairly fucking obvious he's far from over the moon at seeing me, I flip the iPad case closed and drop the tablet on the sofa. “What are you doing here?”

“More to the damn point, what are you doing here?” Luther counters, still scowling.

“I asked first,” I retort, draping my arms over the back of the sofa and casually crossing my legs. “While I may not have all day, I've still got enough time to play this game for a while, so...”

“You telling me you haven't heard?” Luther mutters, giving me a funny, possibly even suspicious look.

“Haven't heard... what?”

“I'd have thought, what with the way this place thrives on the misfortune of others, that it would have been everywhere by now. All the way from those clowns in mail delivery to those nit-picking desk-monkeys, I'm sure it's all everyone's talking about.”

“And since when have you known me to bother myself with gossip, huh?”

Luther gives me another oddly suspicious look, as though he thinks I'm pulling his leg for reasons of peculiar entertainment. “You really don't know?”

“I really don't know,” I confirm, shrugging. “But if you don't tell me in the next few seconds I'm going to round up the first person I encounter in the corridor and get them to explain to me just what the hell it is you're going on about.”

“You really don't know,” Luther murmurs, shaking his head. “Shit, man. You really do live in your own little world, don't you?”

“I'll have you know I share it with others,” I smirk, “just not those, however, who indulge in pointless gossip.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Sighing, Luther pulls a face and crosses his arms over his chest. “Those idiots in recruiting? You're probably not even going to believe it, but they actually found some ex-FBI loser who apparently didn't know that crossbows come fully equipped with their own safety-catch...”

Everything suddenly tumbling into – I can see the cause for all the gossip now – place, I groan. “Oh no...”

“Oh yes.”

“Taking the rookies for a tour through the armoury, were you?”

“That wasn't all I was taking,” Luther replies, wrinkling his nose as he turns around and points at his ass. “Right there in the left butt cheek,” he mutters. “The stupid bastard shot me in the fucking ass! Can you believe it.”

“Uh...” I laugh. I mean, I have to. Luther's sad and sorry tale is just too... tragically... funny not to laugh at. “I can believe it,” I snicker as he glares daggers at me. “It... It's not funny, of course it isn't, but...”

“Damn right it ain't funny,” Luther retorts. “And I'll tell you what else ain't funny, and that's having that icy-cold nurse here changing the dressing.” Pouting, he quickly glances around to make sure that Nurse Bishop isn't in earshot. “She's a witch if ever there was one.”

“Actually, I think you're being insulting to witches,” I reply. “You're safe though. I've been here close to three quarters of an hour and I've been lucky enough to not catch so much as a glimpse of her.”

“That doesn't mean she ain't around here somewhere,” he responds, pulling another face. “Anyway, what are you doing here, Ethan? Given the humour you just enjoyed at my expense, I'm hoping it's for either a root canal or prostrate exam.”

“Charming.”

“I thought so.”

“Well, sorry, you're out of luck,” I murmur, flashing Luther a sickeningly sweet smile. “I'm in perfect health and am only here because I'm waiting for Will.” Pausing, I glance in the direction of Dr Cavendish's closed door. “He's just going through the motions with the in-house psychiatrist while he waits for the results of his blood test to come back.”

“Blood test... Oh!” Realising what, without actually coming out and saying it, I'm referring to, Luther nods. “It's really been a month already? Talk about the time sure as hell having flown.”

“For you, maybe.”

“Longest of your life, huh?

“Something like that.” Actually, it's been an... odd... month. While the lows have been very low, the highs have been surprisingly... pleasant. And, most importantly, we've got through them. As both a team and friends, we've ridden the peaks and troughs together and, okay, although everything might still be very much on a 'taking each day as it comes' basis, it's nonetheless definitely getting better. Will's showing all the signs of steadily moving forward and... we know where we stand with each other. He knows that I'm there for him, and I know... to take a step back and just let him work things out in both his own time and in his own way.

His expression one of understanding, Luther smiles down at me and nods again. “How is your...”

“Uh!” Hardly believing that he'd even consider going there, I look up and shoot him a warning look. “No... desk-monkey... references, remember?”

“That's not what I was going to say.”

“No?”

“No.”

“Then what were you going to say?”

“Your... Agent Brandt. I mean, that's what I'm allowed to call him, isn't it?”

Rolling my eyes, I stretch my foot out and prod the toe of my shoe against Luther's. “He's not... mine.”

“No?” Raising his eyebrow in silent question, Luther looks at me and chuckles. “Okay. Fine. I'll play that game. But... He's on your team, ergo he's... your agent.”

“Fine.” I roll my eyes again. “Will's... my... agent and he's... good. Well, getting there, anyway, and... all the signs are good that he'll make it.”

“Good.” Luther gives me a curiously cunning look. “Word on the floor...”

“The same floor that somehow didn't bother to let me know you'd been shot in the ass by an arrow?”

“That'd be the one.”

“Okay. I just wanted to be sure.”

“Well, now that you're sure, word is that he took on the role Declan... far too cheerfully, if memory serves me correctly... played for Palmer's slimy pet, Thibault.”

Not surprised that this little snippet of... gossip... has been doing the rounds, I nod. “He did, yes.”

“And... How'd that go?” Luther queries, frowning almost as though he hadn't been expecting me to confirm it.

“About as well as could have been expected,” I murmur, shrugging. “Actually... The meet itself went so well that when I met Palmer at the Das Auktionshaus cocktail party later that evening, he offered me a million dollars to take him off my hands.”

“Wish someone would want to spend that much on a gift for me,” Luther mutters. “Just... Shit. Obviously he made an impression, then.”

There being nothing in particular I can think of to reply to that, I remain silent and try not think back to that time at all. It happened. I was there. It's history. That's more than enough to recall about it.

My silence apparently not bothering Luther, he gives a low whistle and shakes his head. “Man, he really does have a pair on him,” he states with just a tinge of awe to his voice. “I wouldn't want to have that Frog gawking at me under normal circumstance, let alone...”

“It was his decision,” I interrupt flatly. “What's more, it was his idea. I didn't...”

“Did I say anything about whose decision it was?” Luther murmurs, coolly cutting me off. “Oh... And by the way, you're doing it again.”

“Doing... what... again?”

“Getting defensive over your...” Trailing off, Luther gives me another one of his knowing looks and calmly adds, “friend.”

Once again feeling no compulsion to come up with anything by way of reply, I settle for simply ignoring Luther and pick up my iPad.

Laughing at my sullen, silent treatment, Luther leans forward and slaps my shoulder. “You know something?” he grins. “He... Agent Brandt... Will... He's good for you.”

My attention caught, just as I'm sure he knew it would be, I return the iPad to the sofa and glower at Luther. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

“This new, caring and sharing you,” Luther replies, still grinning, “is a vast improvement on the black cloud of unpleasant despair that was stomping around here prior to your prison stint. Now... Either you made a... really... special friend behind bars, or your new team, and especially a certain Agent Brandt, have just done wonders for you...”

Realising that he's right and that, yes, all the stress of the past month aside, I do feel a lot better in myself than I did ten months ago, I give up... fighting... Luther and smile. “Was I really that bad?”

“Stuck up your own ass had nothing on it.”

“Oh.” Give it to me straight, why don't you? “Sorry.”

“Stuck by you, didn't I?” Luther mutters with a shrug.

“Yeah. You did. And... Thanks for that. I know I've tried to ignore it in the past, but... We all need friends.”

“That we do,” Luther confirms as, his sixth sense telling him that... danger... is imminent, he glances over his shoulder and spots Nurse Bishop standing in the doorway of her office and peering at him with unblinking intensity. “Shit! As always, Ethan, it's been a blast. Uh... Wish me luck.”

“I'm just glad it's your ass she's snapping the rubber gloves on for and not mine,” I retort, smirking. “But... Good luck, anyway. I... Uh... I'm sure you're going to need it.”

Giving me a look that's as much faked disappointment as it is... wounded, Luther shakes his head and begins to walk over to the nurse's office. “You'll keep.”

Smiling to myself, as his steps slowing as he nears the office, I watch Luther until he disappears behind the door, Nurse Bishop, with a malevolent look shot in my direction, I suspect, for no other reason than I'm daring to take up space in her infirmary, loudly slams shut, and am just reaching once again for the iPad when Dr Cavendish's door opens and Will walks out into the waiting area. His expression unreadable, I can't immediately tell if the news is good or bad and, my Luther-inspired good humour of only a few seconds ago deserting me, I suddenly feel – breathless – far more nervous than I ever expected to.

If the blood test has come back as... positive... then it'll simultaneously change both... nothing and... everything. It won't change how I feel, and it's far from the death sentence that it used to be. But, for Will... The health issues, the stigma still attached to it, knowing what caused it... It... It just wouldn't be fair.

Forcefully banishing these treacherous, stomach clenching thoughts from my head, I get to my feet and meet Will in the middle of the waiting room. In his left hand he holds a folded piece of paper which, even though I know it's rude of me, I just snatch from his fingers in my impatience to know the results. He gives it up without a struggle and, seemingly oblivious to the fact I'm being eaten alive by curiosity here, has the nerve to give a small shrug.

“By all means,” Will murmurs with deceptive disinterest, “feel free to help yourself to my paperwork.”

“Thanks. Your permission makes all the difference to me,” I mutter, unfolding the paper and quickly skimming over the contents. “This is the date and time for a physical,” I add, sighing as I fold it back up and hand it over to Will with a heavy sigh. “I thought...”

“I know what you thought it was,” Will interrupts, giving me a wry – yet otherwise still completely unreadable – look as he carefully places his paperwork in the inside pocket of his suit jacket. “I've still got to pass it though, the physical that is, before I'm declared fully fit to return to the field.”

“Of course you do,” I reply as, both sighing and mentally smacking myself on the head, it dawns on me that this is excellent news in itself. If Dr Cavendish feels that Will is already up to taking the physical with a view to returning to field work, then that's fabulous. It still doesn't necessarily mean that his blood has come back negative, but... It's a start. “Sorry,” I continue, giving Will an apologetic smile. “That was rude of me. It's just...”

“That some things are of far greater importance than a date for a physical,” Will finishes as, suddenly flashing me the most amazingly beautiful smile, he grabs me and settles his lips on mine for both a very thorough and spectacularly incredible kiss. When he's finished – proving that actions do indeed speak far louder than words ever could – doing his utmost best to render me weak at the knees, he pulls back from the kiss and locks very blue and very hopeful eyes on mine. “Given my... issues... in Barcelona, does that answer your question?”

Sliding my arms around his waist, I – regardless of the fact we're in the middle of the infirmary waiting room and either Luther or Nurse Bishop could materialise at any second – nod and sneak another quick kiss. “Oddly enough,” I murmur, loving how he instinctively relaxes into my embrace, “it does.”

It really, really does.

And it's wonderful.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Arching my spine and throwing my head back, I clutch my fingers in the sheet and go with the admittedly unoriginal yet classic gasped declaration of, “Oh my God!” as, my control deserting me, I reach climax. “Oh my... God...” I repeat breathlessly as, light headed, deliciously drained and feeling the strength of my orgasm through every fibre of my body, I flop back down the mattress and momentarily close my eyes.

“Never having ever felt particularly deity like,” Will murmurs with one final, teasing flick of his tongue against the tip of my cock, “a simple thank you would suffice.”

“But...” Opening my eyes, I prop myself up on my elbows and watch Will as he climbs off the mattress. “A mere... thank you... doesn't even begin to come close to covering how... very talented you are.”

“Well... I have always been a firm believer in practice making perfect,” he replies, standing by the foot of the bed and both languidly and unselfconsciously stretching. Gloriously naked, his bare flesh flushed pink and damp with sweat from our lovemaking, Will makes for such an incredible sight that if I wasn't already feeling so – limbless – sated I suspect I could become hard again just from looking at him. And the fact that he'd never believe it, that he'd only blush and dismiss my claims as being purely delusional if I were to give voice to them, simply makes him sexier for it. I could stare – either naked or clothed, in all honesty it wouldn't make any difference to me – at him for hours, and knowing that he'd now not only tolerate it but would also be comfortable enough with it to not even take any particular notice of me, well...

It's incredible.

He's come so far in five relatively short months that my admiration for his willpower, dedication, and general stubbornness knows no bounds. Refusing to allow what happened in Baltimore to forever colour his life, he's faced every challenge head on and just kept pushing forward like a man possessed. It hasn't always been easy. Actually... Make that, I don't think any of it has been easy for him and some days, when something most likely innocent and of no interest to anyone else happened to raise memories best left forgotten, were far worse than others. Hating seeing him struggling to hold it together, I probably remember these days more clearly than Will does. To him they were just... par for the course, something unexpected and momentarily unpleasant to face up to, work around, and move on from. To me, however, they were harsh reminders of the daily pain he was going through, and... that I couldn't, regardless of how much I wanted to be able to, protect him from.

I can still remember that night in Lisbon when it took hours for me to get him to own up to what had been bothering him ever since we'd stopped in at a small bar for a drink on the way back to our hotel. As much embarrassed by his reaction as he was annoyed by it, he hadn't wanted to say and when he eventually confessed the expression on his face was that of a man who wanted the floor to open up and swallow him whole. Some enterprising asshole with wandering hands had felt him up while he was waiting at the counter to be served and that, to his great disgust and dismay, had simply brought him undone. He'd been touched by someone he didn't know, someone he didn't want touching him, and the memories had just come flooding back. And this, in turn, had made him doubt...

Everything.

His ability to put it all successfully behind him. His sexuality. His mental state. His... use... to the team. Us. His use to... me. 

If being groped in a bar by a stranger made him lose it, what would happen if something similar took place during a mission? What if it, the doubt and the discomfort, never left him? Why would I want anything to do with him if he couldn't give me... everything... in return?

He was... Disgusting. A freak. Not worth it. Useless. Damaged goods. A liability. Good for nothing.

I did what I could. I tried to get through to him... That he was none of those things. That I'd wait for however long it took for him to be ready. That there was nothing to be ashamed of. That in the middle of a mission it would be different because there'd be something else, a far greater goal, to focus on. That I trusted him and nothing would change either that or my opinion of him. That, even if it wasn't now, it would be all right. The words fell out of my mouth, but I don't think he heard them. Not really, anyway. They gradually managed to calm him down, but I suspect that had more to do with emotional exhaustion than it did in actually believing what I was trying to get through to him. Watching Will disintegrate in front of me as a litany of self loathing spilled from his lips was so bad that, if, in all good conscience, I could have given him a tranquilliser and simply put him momentarily, at least, out of his misery, I would have.

It was a... long... night, and the headache we both woke up with sadly had nothing to do with a good old fashioned hangover.

Lisbon, I remember, but the following night in London will be forever seared into my memory.

Once the painkillers had kicked in and beaten the headache into submission, it had been an otherwise good day too. Uneventful flight into Heathrow, no more tedious than usual meeting – all in the name of inter-agency, mutual ass kissing, of course – at Thames House with MI6, quite pleasant dinner at a nice restaurant and, just for something different, a trip to the theatre because Jane had never seen Phantom of the Opera. When I finally got to crawl into bed I did so feeling both content and tired. Despite looking drained, Will had seemed in reasonable spirits throughout the day and I was hopeful that he'd just, as he'd already done so many times in respect to the other... hurdles... he'd encountered, put the previous night behind him and moved on.

I was, however, wrong.

Very wrong.

He hadn't put it behind him at all and had spent the day both plotting and raising the courage to put his clinically logical plan into action.

His clinically logical plan that could have easily gotten him shot and which made for one of the most... heartbreaking... experiences I've ever been involved in.

Keeping a few, rather important requirements in mind here, waking to find a naked man in your room can easily be a good thing. A very good thing, even. If you're into that sort of thing, know him, preferably care about him, have half an idea that it's even a possibility... Then, hey, bring it on. If, on the other hand, you're not expecting it, draw your gun on him because waking to find someone standing silently by the side of the mattress will never make your top one hundred list of fun things to wake up to, and immediately – well, once your sleep-addled brain has cottoned on to who exactly your guest is and you've managed to return your gun to the bedside table, that is – note the blandly determined if not oddly terrified expression on his face, then...

Not good.

So very much not good.

He'd decided to embrace the old 'no time like the present' motto to... force himself... to regain his sexuality and I was to be the – lucky – recipient of this blinkered determination.

I tried, again, to get through to him that he didn't have to rush things, that I was prepared to wait until weather reports coming out of hell itself were issuing snow storm warnings, but he wouldn't have a bar of it. His mind was made up and he was going to – pay me back for my patience and understanding – prove that he still had it in him to bring me to climax even if it... took all night and pushed him further towards the edge in the process.

It wasn't sexy, and it wasn't fun. But I went along with it. I had to. What else could I have done? Will's logic was cold and detached, but I understood it. He was... jumping... because he felt he had to, that if he didn't the consequences would be far worse than the event itself. He just... had to. And... I understood it because, with one extreme difference, I would have done exactly the same thing if I'd been in his shoes. I'd have faced up to my fears and grabbed the proverbial bull by the horns, only... I'd have picked up a stranger to... practice on. Someone who didn't care about me and who wouldn't have tried to talk me out of it. Someone I could have put a brave face on for and who, focussed solely on getting their cock sucked, would never have been able to see through my act to the fear and embarrassment simmering just below my surface. I would have acted my heart out and the faceless man I was proving a point on would never have been any the wiser to the fact that I was just using him.

But... Will's not like me and he could no more have presented himself naked to a stranger than he could flap his arms and fly.

It had to be me and, awkwardness aside, I'm eternally grateful for this. If he'd gone down – no pun intended – the stranger path I honestly don't think he'd have been able to cope. Especially as coping with me, who he knew and trusted, and my misguided attempts to touch him in return, was so clearly bad enough.

All I had to do was lie there and try my best to think... sensual... thoughts. And all Will had to do was force himself to both touch me and to take my cock in his mouth without either gagging or showing too much revulsion thanks to the memories of when he'd last found himself in a similar position. Again, it wasn't fun for either of us. Will looked as though there was an invisible gun pressed against the back of his head the entire time and all I wanted to do wrap my arms around him and tell him not to worry, that I loved him regardless. But, because I knew I had to, I let him... explore and experiment – and pit himself against his memory-driven internal demons – and, when it was finally over and he was staring down at the droplets of my come on his chest as though they were acid based and going to eat through his skin, he let me lead him into the shower. There, as the warm water rained down over us, I held him and kissed him and told him that he was amazing, and that he had to believe me that everything was going to be okay.

And, relaxed in my arms and pressed against my body, he let me.

He also let me gently wash his still-beautiful-despite-the-scars-marring-it flesh and, once securely clad in his pyjamas, put up no resistance when I suggested he stay the night with me.

It wasn't ideal, and I will forever wish that A) our first time together hadn't simply been an act of bravery and, B) Will had never been hurt so badly in the first place, but... It did the job. Will proved to himself that – there wasn't anything he couldn't do if he put his mind to it – he could still... give himself willingly, and... It was a start.

A start that set the ball rolling and which, over time and a few more awkward encounters, got us to this pretty damn good point we're at now. I'll never know what Will was like before Baltimore. Maybe he had both a kinky side and no inhibitions, and maybe, sexually, he's back to being close to how he used to be. What I do know are his likes and dislikes, and that there are some, entirely reasonable even under normal circumstances, things I should simply never do. Anything rough or unexpected is out, as is any form whatsoever of restraint. I made the mistake of lifting his arms above his head and pressing him against the wall once, and... Let's just say I won't be doing it again. While I could... begrudgingly... live with the shock and horror I've accidentally caused him, his hesitant and clearly forced offer to go along with it 'if that's what you'd really like' nearly killed me, and... Yeah. Never again. If Will's ever feeling bored with our lovemaking and wanting to experiment, well, he can make the first move.

The most important thing of all though is the fact that he's still here. He's still here, still a part of the team, and by my side every step of the way. Baltimore may have changed him, but it didn't destroy him and, while 'thanks to it' isn't exactly the right term to use, we're together because of all the hard work that followed. Would we have eventually accepted our feelings for each other without such a horrendous event setting things in motion? I like to think so and, again, I'd give anything for it not to have happened, but at the end of the day we'll simply never know. It happened, and here we are. Maybe our relationship isn't... normal, but nor was it ever going to be. We're field agents who risk our lives on a daily basis, not a pair of accounts who have the opportunity to go home to their own bed every night and who can actually be honest with any friends they might have outside of their work. I'm all... act first, maybe think about things later... whereas Will's more... think first, and then think some more, and possibly even fit in a spot of research if time allows for it, before then, and only then, acting.

Yet... It works. Somehow, we just work well together. When I'm with Will I feel a sense of happiness and contentment that makes the one I thought I had with Julia seem if not hollow then certainly faked. He just makes everything seem... better... somehow. Not to mention definitely far more worth while.

“You okay there?” Will queries dubiously as, having finished his stretch, he raises his eyebrow and looks down at me. “I mean, you're looking a little... dazed... and you'd tell me, yeah, if you were having an aneurysm or something like that, right?”

“I was just thinking about your 'practice making perfect' statement,” I smirk, swinging my legs over the edge of the mattress and sitting up, “and how I'd perhaps be... wise... to keep my compliments to myself for a while. You know, just in case you start to think you've reached the top of your... craft... and don't need to practice anymore.”

Laughing, Will mutters, “Self, self, self. That's all you ever think about,” and, walking over to me, holds out his hand. “Come on, while it may not benefit you in any way, I want a shower and you can wash my back.”

“Wash your back, huh?” Shaking my head, I place my hand in Will's and allow him to help me up from the bed. “Now who's all self, self, self?”

“Well, so long as we all have a purpose in life.” Grinning, Will uses the grip he's got on my hand to pull me against him and only releases it in order to slide his arms around my waist. “You wash my back and I'll continue to... practice... on you,” he adds, punctuating his really-too-kind offer with a kiss to my forehead. “How does that sound?”

“Like I may well just be the luckiest man alive,” I murmur, draping my arms over Will's shoulders and pressing our bodies warmly together. As I'm now indeed fortunate enough to take for granted, he relaxes against me without hesitation and, this time on the tip of my nose, sneaks another quick kiss.

“If you feel like the luckiest man alive, I don't know what that makes me,” he whispers, locking his fingers together and resting them against the small of my back as, tilting his head back slightly, he locks his very expressive eyes on mine. “Actually, Ethan... You know that I love you, don't you?”

Nodding, I lean forward and rest my forehead against Will's. “I know,” I state quietly. “And... You know that I love you too, right? That... I'll always be here for you...”

“I know...” Shifting his arm from behind my back, Will glides his hand up the length of my torso and, as I lean instinctively into his touch, cups my cheek in his palm. “That's why I'm still here...”

~ end ~


End file.
